Smoke Gets In Your Eyes
by FraidyCat
Summary: Someone has targeted the Eppes family: Why? and Who? Supporting character death.
1. Smithereens

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**

**_A/N: Working subtitle: "How The Cat Spent Her Summer Vacation". This story reflects a return to my roots (there is a character death that should not surprise regular Cat readers), as well as a growth of those roots (I'm nicer to her memory than I have been in the past). While I welcome constructive reviews that address grammatical and other writing issues, I do not welcome harassment. This story is mine; if it does not agree with your entertainment tastes, kindly turn the channel._ **

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**Chapter 1: Smithereens**

Alan popped the trunk release as he climbed out of the silver Acura. He glanced at the house and smiled as he walked toward the grocery bags stowed in the rear of his vehicle. "Porch light is on," he observed. "Amita must be home."

Even as the words left his mouth, his smile was expanding. Alan loved few things more than a house full of people, and he was thoroughly enjoying himself since Amita had moved in with Charlie. He almost felt guilty about not pursuing new living arrangements more actively. Oh, the kids had both said that he was always welcome at the Craftsman -- but Alan had been young once. Of course, when he had brought Margaret into his home, it was as his bride, but still. Two things he remembered from his days on the picket lines of the 60s: the times, they were a'changin'...and sometimes, three was definitely a crowd. Everybody in the household was so busy, though; Alan liked to think they were successfully staying out of each other's way, so far. He was still helping Stan with an occasional project; volunteering; and taking courses at Cal Sci. In fact, even though they lived in the same house, on some days, Cal Sci was the only place he saw either Charlie or Amita. Both were full-time teachers, both were involved in research and writing, both consulted for the FBI -- as well as various other agencies, on Charlie's part. Maybe, Alan mused, they didn't even realize that he still lived with them!

Charlie, coming from the other side of the car, met him at the trunk and grabbed two of the eco-friendly canvas tote bags with each hand. He peered over the Acura toward the well-lit kitchen entrance and frowned slightly. "I wonder how she got here?" he grumbled. "Her car is still in the shop -- and her class shouldn't be over, yet!"

Alan gathered a few bags of his own -- not as many as Charlie had, but surely these were heavier -- and left the trunk gaping open as he herded them both toward the house. "It's a woman's job to keep you guessing," he teased, and Charlie snorted softly.

"Amita's an over-achiever," he responded, and Alan laughed, a sound full of joy. For a long time after Margaret died, he had felt traitorous anytime he realized that he was happy. Eventually he had healed to the point at which he began to understand all that he had left, and dwelled less on what he had lost. In truth, Alan Eppes felt like a very blessed man.

The kitchen door swung open when he and his son were almost there, and he smiled to realize that Amita had been watching them from the window. She was silhouetted in the frame of the door, waving with one hand and holding her cell phone to her ear with the other. Both men had their hands too full to respond to her wave, but it was difficult to judge whose reciprocating smile was brighter.

She flipped her phone shut and placed it on the tile countertop before squeezing past Alan in the doorway, pecking him quickly on the cheek. "I'll go bring in some more," she offered.

Alan hefted his bags onto the table and called after her. "Thank-you, dear. There's only one..." Looking up, he saw that Amita had paused on the porch, and that she and Charlie were engaged in a world-class liplock. Charlie's arms were flailing with his load of groceries; it was obvious he would rather have his hands elsewhere. Alan shook his head and grinned again. "Son, the ice cream is melting!"

Charlie reluctantly broke away from Amita and rolled his eyes so that only she could see him. "Coming, Dad," he said, moving past her into the house. Amita giggled and moved on toward the car, almost there when Charlie stuck his head out of the kitchen and yelled. " 'Mita! Would you stop at the garage and bring in my laptop? I left it there when Dad asked me to go to the store with him!"

She picked up the last canvas tote bag and backed away from the vehicle. With her free hand, Amita closed the trunk lid and waved again at Charlie. "Got it, sweetie!" she called back before veering toward the garage.

Charlie smiled. "Thanks," he called. "Do you want me to leave the ice cream out?"

Amita placed her hand on the doorknob and looked back over her shoulder before she pushed her way in. "Pistachio?" she asked.

"What else?" Charlie countered. "Only the best for my baby."

Alan groaned behind him but Charlie ignored him and imagined he could see Amita smiling across the dark yard. "Absolutely!" she instructed him -- or maybe she was only agreeing with his assessment. She was still in the process of turning her head back around as she opened the door and stepped into the garage, fumbling for the light switch on the wall near the door.

She didn't even see the trip wire -- but she felt it against her bare ankle. She looked down, confused.

And then the garage and Amita were nothing but smithereens.

**....................................................................................................................................**

It reminded Alan of the sonic booms that used to be so common during the war. The noise was enormous, and the house seemed to shake beneath his feet. Turning from the refrigerator, where he was stacking yogurt, he saw that the entire kitchen was bathed in an orange-red glow. He hardly noticed when a carton of Peach Harvest slipped from his fingers and splattered on the floor next to his feet. "What the hell?"

Charlie, still in the open doorway facing the garage, dropped all four of his canvas bags. Oranges spilled from one, and a glass bottle of apple juice shattered on the porch. Charlie shuffled through the broken glass. "Amita," he nearly whispered -- Alan barely heard him -- until it became a gutteral scream, and Charlie was bounding across the grass. "AMITA! AMITA!"

Alan looked from the yogurt at his feet to the spilled groceries in the doorway to the burning garage in the distance. The dark form of his screaming son stood out clearly, the lawn now lit by more than an exterior porch light, and Alan could see that Charlie was intent on running directly into the fire. The realization set his own feet in motion. "CHARLIE!" he called, skidding in yogurt halfway across the kitchen.

Charlie was dead-even with the Acura when the second explosion lifted him off his feet and slammed him almost twelve feet backwards into the unforgiving mass of the car. His head hit the passenger window hard enough to crack the glass, and he slithered down the side of the car to land in an unconscious heap hear the tire.

Alan watched every slow-motion millisecond, even though he himself was cartwheeling onto the porch, courtesy of a stray orange that rolled under his yogurt-covered shoe. At length a second orange, which was lurking just outside the kitchen door, conspired to dump the now-speechless and terrified patriarch completely over the porch railing. Alan landed with a thump on the lawn, and it didn't even occur to him to check for injury before he began scrambling on his hands and knees toward his son.

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**End, Chapter 1**


	2. The Surreal Life

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**

**_A/N: Thank you for all the kind reviews, story alerts, and "favorites". You're a very trusting bunch indeed, to make such a judgment after only one chapter! This will not be one of my longer fics, but I have also been working on a little somethin-somethin with my writing partner, Serialgal, so there will soon be a Rabid Raccoons tale for you._**

**_In the meantime, our story continues....  
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**Chapter 2: The Surreal Life**

It was supposed to be a quiet evening.

With Charlie's help, they had just closed a very complicated case. Don wasn't even on-call. He had planned a slow, leisurely dinner with Robin at an intimate Italian eatery very near his apartment. Live music, good food, better company… Chances were excellent that somewhere between the breadsticks and the canneloni, she would agree to go home with him. Don was a very happy fed.

He was so happy, in fact, so relaxed, that he experienced only a twinge of self-recrimination when he felt the cell phone vibrate on his hip. He should have turned it off -- after all, he wasn't on-call -- but old habits die hard. The meal was nearly over, and Robin had stepped away to the ladies' room to freshen her make-up, so Don hunched forward in his chair to hold the phone close to the candle in the middle of the table. He frowned when he made out Colby's name in the display -- both because it was more difficult than it used to be, seeing in the dark, and because the guys were aware of his dinner plans for the evening. As far as Don knew, the entire team had plans for something a little special that night; it wasn't that often that they had a night off.

He thought about ignoring the call, but its mere existence discombobulated him a little, so he quietly rose from the table and wandered out into a corner of the small restaurant's lobby. "This better be good," he growled softly when he flipped the cell open. He could hear Colby -- or somebody -- breathing, but there were no words forthcoming right away. "Granger?" Robin stepped out of the nearby ladies' room then and smiled tentatively at Don, who waggled his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. "Granger?" he repeated.

"Don, you missed a call from dispatch." Colby's voice was oddly detached and Don lowered the phone for a moment to check the display. There were indeed three missed calls; must've happened when he and Robin had been waiting in the bar for their table. He remembered, now; he had tried to return a call of his father's, gotten voice mail himself, and laid the phone down next to his beer after he left a brief message. Then Robin had talked him into taking a turn around the dance floor; the restaurant's piano player/singer had delivered a surprisingly good rendition of "When A Man Loves A Woman". Don had left the phone by his beer, and had not noticed the missed calls when reclaiming both later.

Now he raised the phone to his ear again. "Why would dispatch call? We're not on tonight." Don thought he heard some activity taking place around his agent. "Are you at a crime scene?"

The background noise faded as Granger apparently moved away from the source. "Don, I'm at Charlie's. Somebody blew up the garage."

Don's mouth literally gaped open. Robin stepped closer to him and grasped his free hand with both of hers. Don glanced at her, and found his voice. "What? When?" He didn't wait for Colby to answer. "Charlie has a space heater out there; maybe he overloaded a circuit."

"There were two explosions, Don." Colby sounded sad. "Firefighters have already found at least one incendiary device."

Don struggled to contain this information. "But...Charlie had fire sprinklers installed out there just last year."

He could almost hear Granger nod. "That's what saved the house -- and the neighbor's houses. Eventually they did their job." He hesitated, again. "Unfortunately, so did the bomb."

Don staggered back half a step, and probably only remained upright because Robin was holding onto him. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "Let me talk to Charlie. Is he all right?" He blinked his eyes once and practically gasped the next syllable. "Dad?"

Colby's voice took on magical qualities, simultaneously reassuring Don and breaking his heart. "They're...alive. Medics are looking at them. Don. Ah, geez, Don, I'm sorry. Amita was the one who went into the garage."

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Alan was standing a few feet away from the paramedics' rig, watching a frighteningly young EMT flash a penlight into Charlie's glazed eyes. He was as close as he could get, and could tell from the one-sided conversation that the EMT was recommending that Charlie be seen at a hospital.

Alan couldn't agree more. Oh, his son hadn't been unconscious long; by the time Alan managed to reach him, Charlie had been staggering to his feet, screaming Amita's name again and planning another attempt at entering the inferno that used to be the garage. Alan had body-tackled his own baby, not even sure now what he had been yelling at Charlie. Certainly it had been language concerned with keeping the boy outside. He outweighed Charlie by a good 50 pounds, but adrenaline and grief turned the professor into a force to be reckoned with, and Alan shuddered to think what would have happened if Len Richardson hadn't suddenly appeared from next door. Len's wife, Arlis, had called 9-1-1, and Len helped hold Charlie back until the fire department arrived.

The tanker truck had been accompanied by two paramedic units, and soon Alan was screaming almost as loudly as Charlie. The two were separated and taken to different units as the firemen lent their hoses to the fire suppression sprinklers Charlie had installed in the garage just last year. By the time Alan convinced a young woman he was fine, and was released to look for Charlie, the fire was nearly out.

Alan hurried past the garage, now just a shell, and knew the damage had been done. Amita was not coming out.

Personnel surrounding the second paramedic unit kept pushing him back, away from his boy. At first, Alan was glad that Charlie was no longer screaming. Then he got close enough to see his face, and felt his blood run cold. God. He recognized that expression; he had seen it on his own face in the mirror, when he had lost Margaret. Even though somewhere in the back of his mind, he had understood that at least he still had the boys, it was still as if his very life had been extinguished.

He started to push against a uniformed LAPD officer – where had he come from? – but found himself pulled back at the same time by a strong hand gripping his forearm. He growled and whirled, aiming all his distress and anxiety at this newest threat. "Let me go! My son needs…." He blinked, the acrid smoke hanging in the air making his eyes burn. He blinked again, and wilted just a little. "Donny?"

Rather than respond to his father verbally, Don did something he had probably only done once or twice before in the last twenty years – he pulled the man to himself, surrounding Alan with love as much as with his arms, and held him in the hug silently until he felt Alan return the embrace.

They stood that way for a long moment; Alan was loathe to push away from his eldest, but he knew that his youngest needed them both. "Charlie," he intoned dismally, breaking away from Don and looking back toward the EMT unit.

Don's eyes followed his gaze, and he swallowed thickly, almost choking on the smoke in the air. "I'll go to him," he offered. "Do you think you can talk to Colby and the fire department's arson guy?"

Alan looked at him as if he were speaking another language. "Colby's not here. Did you say 'arson'?"

Don sighed sadly and looked in the general direction of the garage. "Colby and David have been here almost an hour," he pointed out. "Granger's the one who called me. Neighbors heard explosions, and it was a hot fire." He gentled his tone, hating everything he was saying to his father. "First responders discovered…suspicious evidence, and called in one of their investigators."

Even in the artificial and surrealistic light provided by emergency vehicles, Don could see his father pale. "Oh, my God," Alan breathed. "Someone did this intentionally?"

Don's face hardened and he looked again at Charlie. "Whoever it was will pay, Dad. I swear to God, he'll pay."

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Although it was dark, that was attributable to the season of year, and it was not yet that late. Even if it had been, the fire itself, and the responding sirens of emergency vehicles, would have drawn a crowd. It was not difficult to stand across the street and watch. If any neighbors remembered him later, and couldn't quite place him, they would no doubt assume he had just been out for a walk; or, perhaps, lived a block or two down the way.

In truth, he lived nearly 40 miles to the South. His rented vehicle was parked almost a mile from the smoldering garage, and he had been lurking in the shadows across the street for several hours.

Everything had almost been in ruins more than once. First, the professor had disappeared into the garage with his laptop for hours. When the old man had finally pried him out, there had barely been enough time to plant the devices before he heard another vehicle in the drive. He had watched the pretty brunette climb from the mid-size red sedan, then smile and wave as the driver backed away from the house. He had barely been able to pull back a little when she glanced toward the garage and called for "Charlie". Finally she had shrugged and trudged across the lawn to the back door of the Craftsman. When she had disappeared inside, he was able to carefully, silently, exit his hiding place and slink off the property.

He had watched from behind the scrub Oak for another hour, until the two men had come home with the groceries. When the woman had opened the door to the garage and stepped inside, he almost ruined everything again by moaning loudly and finding release in his own pants – _tha_t stain, _that_ smell, someone was likely to remember – but at the last moment he had managed to envision his grandmother's face and avoid catastrophe.

Later, though, when he was safely home again, he intended to imagine the pretty brunette's face as it was blown off her skull. He was sure the image would feed his needs for years.

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Don settled next to Charlie on the rear bumper of the EMT unit. There was barely enough room for both of them, and the older brother was secretly glad that he had a legitimate excuse to sit as close to Charlie as he wanted to anyway. Their shoulders and thighs touched, and Don felt the chill of Charlie's body leeching into his own. He tried to look at Charlie with a professional, detached eye. His brother sported several small cuts and abrasions, but the EMT had assured Don that physically, Charlie was in good shape. The main concern was his brief lack of consciousness – and shock.

Don cleared his throat and spoke as quietly as he could, and yet still be heard over the surrounding activity. "You should probably go to the hospital," he urged gently. "Let the docs check you over. Dad said you lost consciousness."

Charlie was in less shock than he had assumed, and turned his attention briefly from the garage to his older brother. "I'm all right," he insisted. "You've had your share of concussions; you know what to do. I'll go see my personal physician in the morning, if you want. I just can't deal with an ER tonight."

It sounded like a reasonable compromise to Don. Besides, he could see the coroner and one of his assistants preparing to enter the garage, which meant that Amita's…body…was one step closer to being bagged and removed, something he really didn't want Charlie to witness. "Okay," he agreed, "but I want you and Dad to come home with me tonight. So I can keep an eye on you." _And so you don't have to sleep in your bed without Amita,_ he thought.

Charlie was staring at the garage again, and he sagged a little against Don. "She's probably cold," he whispered. "Do you think they covered her up? Amita gets cold very easily."

Don was at a loss as to how to respond to that. He opened his mouth, realized that Charlie didn't need a biology lesson, and closed it again. Instead he shifted a little, moving so that he could drape an arm around Charlie's shoulders in a sort-of awkward lateral hug. He pulled his brother closer to his side, and he didn't say a word.

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End, Chapter 2


	3. A Long Night

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**

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**Chapter 3: A Long Night**

Don turned the key in the lock and pushed the front door of his apartment open, stepping aside to allow Charlie to enter first. His father moved close in behind him. "Put Charlie in the guest room," Alan murmured. "I'll be fine on the couch."

Don frowned and waited for Alan to follow Charlie into the apartment. "Don't be ridiculous, Dad. One of you will take the guest room, and one of you will take the master."

"Donny," Alan started but his eldest crowded into the vestibule far enough to close the door behind them and interrupted.

"I mean it, Dad; I'll be up-and-down all night doing concussion-checks on Charlie, anyway. The fold-out bed is actually pretty comfortable."

Alan opened his mouth to point out that Don was proving his point, and _he_ would be fine on the couch, when Charlie's soft rasp startled both Alan and Don into temporary submission. "I smell like smoke," the youngest Eppes stated, tilting his chin slightly toward the ceiling and narrowing his eyes, trying to label another odor. "A touch of sulfur," he finally decided.

Don nodded -- he had smelled sulfur too, at the scene -- as well as gunpowder. He wasn't going to say anything to his father or brother about it without more to go on, but he was fairly certain at this point that they were looking at a pipe bomb. He tossed his keys onto the small table in the vestibule and moved past his father to gently grip Charlie's elbow, and begin steering him toward the bathroom. "You should take a shower," he encouraged. "Dad and I will flip a coin for the couch, okay Buddy?"

They paused in the doorway of the bathroom and Charlie looked at his feet with heartbreaking embarrassment. "I need some clothes," he mumbled.

Don moved his hand until he could squeeze Charlie's shoulder. "Go ahead," he prompted. "I'll get a t-shirt and some sweats or something, and leave them on the counter for you. You know where I keep the toothbrushes," he reminded his brother. "I'm sure there are some unopened dentist samples in there."

Charlie sighed and his shoulders slumped a little, but he still hesitated. "I should make some calls," he said, still looking at his feet.

Alan was now standing behind them in the hallway. "I'll call Larry for you son, and Millie. Or, it can wait until after you've showered."

Charlie finally raised his eyes to Don's. The agent found that he had to exercise some willpower to keep himself from reacting to the naked pain he saw there. "Amita has her parents' numbers programmed into her cell."

The men stood silently for a few moments. Finally Alan remarked softly. "It's at the house -- she was talking on it when we got home, and I saw her put it on the kitchen counter."

_Oh, God_, thought Don, as another wave of reality washed over him. _Amita!_ He shook himself a little and cleared his throat. "Shower first," he instructed firmly, wondering from where he was summoning the strength to take charge. "I'll call Colby and ask him to bring the cell here."

Charlie just nodded and stumbled further into the bathroom. "Right," he answered sadly. "I guess there's no rush."

Don felt tears pressing at the backs of his eyes and started for his bedroom almost blindly. "I'll get those clothes," he said gruffly.

Alan blinked back tears of his own and turned in the other direction. "I'll make some coffee," he offered. "It's going to be a long night."

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He waited until the coroner and his assistant had bagged the body, placed it on a gurney, and were wheeling it toward the transport vehicle. Several of the gawking neighbors found the sight disturbing, and chose that moment to wander off down the sidewalk. Couples held hands and moved closer together, whispering in reverent hushes, and it was easy to blend into the crowd, avoiding possible detection.

He ruminated as he walked nearly a mile to the back parking lot of a supermarket, where he had left his car. It was an unadulterated fact that his assault had not gone as planned. Oh, the pipe bombs worked gloriously enough – both the one directly to the right of the door, which had been set off when the woman walked into the fishing line tripwire – and the second one, further back in the garage and boasting a digital timer. The timer did not start running until activated by high temperature, and he had been less sure that bomb would be successful. While it was horrendously easy to find pipe bomb recipes searching the Internet at the public library, a basic knowledge of both physics and mechanics was necessary to jimmy-rig the timing device. It was the main reason he had doused the garage with various accelerants; the fire must burn hot to ensure the deployment of the second pipe bomb.

In the end, he was pleased with both the explosions, so much so that he was willing to chalk it all up to a dress rehearsal, when the woman turned out to be the one to enter the garage. She was not the intended victim – but it meant less than nothing to him that she be sacrificed.

He was thrilled at the reaction of the two men. Slowly, it dawned on him that this scenario was actually better. If he truly wanted Eppes to suffer, why not take something from him – as Eppes had taken from him? The agony of the men was so perfect. So sweet. He could see it in the expression on Eppes' face – the death of the woman was pure torture.

Perhaps his plan had been too simple. Identify and find the man responsible for his own pain, and kill him. Perhaps all along, the plan should have included making Eppes suffer first.

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Don turned from the automatic coffee maker and crossed the few steps to the kitchen's eating bar, setting a fresh cup of coffee down in front of Colby, who was sitting on the other side. Don glanced up at David, standing behind his partner. "Sure you don't want anything?"

David shook his head silently and looked nervously around the apartment. "Is your dad here?" he asked.

Don nodded and took a sip of his own coffee. "Yeah. He got Charlie settled in the guest room, but he doesn't want to be too far away from him. He's down in my room, using the phone. Calling Millie and Larry, I think." David's gaze flickered quickly to the back of Colby's head. Don redirected his own attention to Granger in time to see him rip a page from his field notebook and slide it across the bar. Confused, Don looked at the two phone numbers scribbled on the paper. "What's this?"

Colby leaned back so far on the bar stool he almost fell off the other side. He looked at Don apologetically. "Rumson wouldn't let me bring Amita's phone -- especially after he heard that she was on it right before she...." He reddened, and looked down at his coffee. "Anyway. He let me go through the address book and write down her parents' numbers -- the first one is her father's cell -- but he doesn't want them informed until we have a firm ID from the coroner's office. There are local dental records, so it shouldn't take long; maybe as early as tomorrow."

Don stared at him, non-plussed. "What the hell are you talking about?" he finally asked. "What does Rumson have to do with any of this?"

David took over the explanation. "The case has been assigned to his team," he informed his incredulous boss. "He arrived at the scene just a few minutes after you left."

Colby practically talked over the top of his friend, trying to stave off Don's objections. "A.D. Wright himself is calling the shots on this one, Don. There's no way he's going to let you anywhere near an investigation this close to your family." He paused, snorting softly. "Hell, David practically begged to get us assigned temporarily to Rumson, but Wright vetoed that, as well. We have to meet with Rumson's team tomorrow morning and give them everything we got at the scene -- LAPD will be there too. Right now, it's a joint investigation."

To Don's utter surprise, David suddenly smiled. "The A.D. did agree to put Nikki on the case," he said. "Since she's only worked a couple of cases with Charlie, I was able to talk him into that. At least we can keep fairly informed." His smile faded. "He also said to remind you that you have three weeks of PTO saved up, and you can request additional leave if you need it. Charlie's going to need you around, for awhile."

Colby sighed, and turned serious eyes on Don. "Your dad, too -- Amita was like a daughter to him."

As if on cue, Don's bedroom door opened and the eldest Eppes smiled a sad greeting at David and Colby before turning in the opposite direction, intending to check on Charlie.

Don all-but growled in frustration. Sam Rumson was not a bad agent; in point of fact, he was a very good one, with more experience than Don himself. And it was true what A.D. Wright had said -- his family needed him right now. Don was not so much reluctant to be there for them as he was simply stymied -- he also wanted to do everything he could to find and punish Amita's killer. He frowned as he took in the slump of his father's retreating shoulders and lowered his voice a tad. "At least tell me Rumson is assigning Charlie protection. It's pretty obvious he was the target."

Colby tilted his head. "Maybe not," he mused.

Despite his earlier consideration of his father, Don raised his voice. "Come on, Granger! It's his house -- used to be his garage. The man has consulted on dozens of cases just for us. Let's not even get into what he's done for other alphabet agencies!"

Colby held up a hand, palm flat, as if appealing for peace. "All of that is true -- but Amita has consulted for us, as well, both with Charlie and solo, during the months he was without clearance. She's lived at the house for almost six months! I'm just saying I can see why Rumson wants the phone for potential evidence."

David agreed. "You know you'd make the same decision if this were any other case, Don," he chided gently. Something lightly brushed his elbow, and David half-turned to find that Alan Eppes had silently joined the conversation, completely undetected. Some FBI agents the three of them were turning out to be. "Hey, Mr. Eppes," he said softly.

"Alan," the patriarch corrected automatically as both Colby and Don turned their attention to him. He held Don's gaze. "Is Charlie in danger?"

Colby shrugged and swiveled his head back around to regard Don. "We don't know enough yet to rule that out," he admitted. He raised an eyebrow. "Another good reason for you to take some time, Eppes." Don silently crossed his arms over his chest and Colby waited a moment before he continued. "David and I will strongly suggest a protection detail to Rumson in the morning -- but if he isn't ready to go that route yet, Don, I've got some vacation time coming."

"Me, too," interjected David. "We both want to help."

Don smiled his thanks grimly, and Alan blinked a few times in rapid succession. "You're good boys," he whispered. "Good friends. Thank-you."

Don cleared a suddenly clogged throat and tried to change the subject. "Did you get in touch with Millie, Dad? Larry?"

Alan rubbed a hand over a tired face. "Yes...Millie is still on campus...." His expression changed, and he glanced at David. "You know, Charlie was surprised to see Amita tonight when we got home from the store. Not only does she have a class Thursday evenings, her car is in the shop right now. He was planning on going back to Cal Sci to pick her up."

"That could be interesting," David began, but Alan shook his head. "I don't know. Millie told me there was a power outage on campus tonight. Several teachers dismissed early. One of them probably gave Amita a ride home."

"You guys should still tell Rumson," advised Don, and both junior agents nodded.

Alan sighed. "Larry was unpacking boxes at his new apartment." He lowered his eyes to gaze at the floor. "Charlie and Amita helped him paint just last weekend...."

"Is he coming over?" Don asked gently.

Alan's head shot back up. "What?"

"To see Charlie," Don prompted further.

Alan exhaled again, somewhat shakily. "Oh. Oh. Yes, yes, he's on the way. I told him that would be all right."

Don smiled tenderly at his father, worried that the older man was on the verge of belated shock himself. "Of course it is," he assured the older man. "You should probably sit down, Dad. Go on out to the living room, and I'll bring you some coffee."

Alan smiled weakly, and allowed David to guide him by the elbow. "Whiskey," he suggested instead. "And make it a double."

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End, Chapter 3


	4. Tea and Sympathy

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**

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**Chapter 4: Tea and Sympathy**

The guest room in Don's apartment boasted a large window on the South wall. Don had never quite understood why, since the view was nothing to brag about: Part of the complex's parking lot; scattered residential areas with small neighborhood stores dating from the 50s or 60s; and, in the distance, the perpetual traffic jam sometimes referred to as a "freeway". Still, it was at the window where Don and Larry found Charlie.

Don had rapped lightly on the door, but his brother had not responded. Fairly certain Charlie had not fallen asleep, after a few seconds Don twisted the knob and pushed through anyway. Larry followed closely behind. Don paused just inside the door and allowed Larry first access. The physicist, who had been so distraught upon his arrival at the apartment that Don wondered if Charlie should even be subjected to the visit, had somehow discovered his internal fountain of strength. He brushed past Don and trod purposefully toward Charlie, who did not so much as turn around when the men entered the room. Larry stopped close behind his friend. He raised a hand as if to touch him, then reconsidered and shoved the hand into the front pocket of his jeans. "Charles," he intoned quietly. "I'm so sorry for your loss. I'm truly sorry for us all."

Charlie's shoulders stiffened and he drew almost imperceptibly away from Larry, side-stepping toward the left. "Thank-you," he answered dully.

Larry glanced back at Don over his shoulder for a moment, then tried again. "I'd be honored to be of assistance in any way I can, Charles. Would you like some tea?"

Charlie's tilted head seemed to indicate consideration. Finally he turned around to face Larry, and for the first time realized Don was also in the room. A flicker of emotion passed quickly over a face that was as carefully composed as its owner. "Did you get the phone?" he asked. "There's a 13-and-a-half hour time difference between L.A. and New Delhi." He glanced at his watch. "It's nearly 10 a.m. tomorrow there -- I should call before they're stuck in a meeting somewhere."

Don swallowed, allowing his fingers to play with the slip of paper Colby had given him. "You remember Sam Rumson, Buddy? He's the Team Leader for this investigation, and he wouldn't release the phone to Colby -- possible evidence." He thrust the paper out in front of him like a prize. "He let him write down the numbers from the cell's address book, though."

Charlie regarded the paper as if it was a rattlesnake. "I don't understand."

Don sighed, lowering his hand and letting it hang at his side. "Rumson feels Amita may have been the target, because of her work for us down at the Bureau. He also...." Don looked away briefly, embarrassed, then returned an apologetic gaze to Charlie. "He doesn't want the Ramanujans informed of the certainty of Amita's death until there is a positive ID -- but he can't stop you from telling them what you saw," he added defiantly.

To his surprise, Charlie smiled slightly, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Should I also inform them that it's my fault?"

"That's not true, Charles," Larry interrupted. "Don just said that Amita herself may have been the target. At this point you can't assume that someone came after you."

Charlie kept smiling, and the expression was starting to creep Don out a little as he watched. "I don't care who they were after," Charlie countered. "I sent her into the garage. I left my laptop inside, and sent her to pick up after me." He turned back to the window abruptly. "It's my fault," he repeated, whispering. He leaned forward and let his head thunk on the window pane. "I killed Amita."

Don hurried forward, exchanging a look with Larry and shoving the slip of paper into his pocket. "Hey, hey," he reprimanded gently, cautiously gripping Charlie's shoulder. "Be careful of your head, Buddy!" The shoulder beneath his hand began to shake, and Don realized that Charlie was crying. He swallowed back his own grief and used his free hand to rub soothing circles over Charlie's back. "We all know that's not true," he admonished. "You never would have willingly put Amita in danger."

"Absolutely not," agreed Larry. "You didn't know, Charles; the consequences of our dear Amita entering the garage cannot be attributed to your initial request!"

Don shook his head slightly; he wasn't sure, but he thought Larry was on his side. At least Charlie seemed to be calming down. "Dad and I can make the call," he offered. "Why don't you let Larry make you that tea?"

Charlie slowly raised his head, and Don could see his tear-stained face reflected in the window. "I need to do it," he said brokenly. "Dear God, I owe them that much, at least."

Don nodded, knowing he would feel the same way. He released Charlie's shoulder, although he let one hand rest on his brother's back, and reached into his pocket. Withdrawing the slip of paper, he placed it gently on the window sill. "Do you want us to stay? Or should I go get Dad?"

Again Charlie shook his head. "Just leave me alone," he pleaded.

Larry's eyes flashed dark with sympathy. "Very well, Charles," he said. "But I am going to make that tea. I'll be back with a cup in a few minutes."

Don didn't say anything else, but patted Charlie solidly on the back a few times -- almost as if he was burping him -- before turning and leading Larry out of the room. Charlie sighed deeply, resting his head on the cold window again. After a few moments, he reached out and grabbed blindly for the piece of paper. When it was secure in his hand, he turned and crossed a few feet of carpet until he could perch on the end of the bed. He pulled his own cell phone from his pocket and stared at it, momentarily surprised to find it still working. Not only had he been blown into his father's car, it just somehow seemed wrong -- that anything should work, that the sun should ever shine, that he should ever feel warm -- again. At length, he managed to enter a set of numbers from the paper into the phone's keypad; it took several seconds for the international call to connect. Finally he could hear the phone ringing, however, and it was not long after that he recognized Amita's father's voice.

Charlie closed his eyes, clenched his fist at his side, and inhaled deeply. "Mr. Ramanujan. Sanjay. This is Charlie Eppes."

**...................................................................................................**

While Larry busied himself in Don's tiny kitchen, the three F.B.I. agents talked quietly in the living room. Don kept glancing at his father, who was standing at the window in a pose hauntingly similar to the one in which he had so recently found Charlie. At least the view on this side of the apartment was a little better, although Don sincerely doubted that Alan was really seeing anything.

David regarded his team leader sympathetically. "We'll get this guy, Don," he offered.

Don grunted in exasperation and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. "We don't even know if it _was_ a guy," he sighed. "Maybe it's a jealous woman, or a bored teenager just trying to see if his Internet pipe bombs really worked!" His shoulders slumped and he glanced one last time at his father's back before he hung his head. "I can't believe this happened."

Colby was silent, but David nodded. "I know. I mean, I get that we see things like this on the job – but it's different when it's someone you know. I helped the EMT walk Charlie over to the bus, and I don't think he ever recognized me."

Alan finally turned to face the group. _"I_ didn't even notice that," he said softly, and the agents all lifted their heads to him. "Where was I" The elder Eppes seemed genuinely confused.

"Colby and another EMT took you to another bus," David informed him gently, and Alan turned surprised eyes toward Agent Granger. "Really? I'm sorry; it didn't even register that you both were there, until Don told me later." He half-smiled sadly, looking from Colby to David. "I appreciate it. Thank-you, for taking care of us."

The two agents exchanged an embarrassed glance, and Don stood on shaky legs to go to his father. He grasped Granger's shoulder briefly as he passed the younger agent. "I absolutely concur," he said somewhat gruffly. "Thank you – both -- for taking care of my family."

Colby's eyes flashed dangerously for a moment before he looked pointedly away. "Alan and Charlie are family to us, too, man," he reminded Don, finishing with a promise. "I swear to God, Eppes, we'll make _someone_ answer for this!"

**…………………………………………………………………………………….............**

It was late.

A mug of cold tea sat untouched on the bedside table. Larry, David and Colby had left hours before. At least twice since then, Charlie had quietly endured Don's head injury checks. "My name is Charles Edward Eppes," he had said aloud, while silently he thought to himself – _My life ended tonight._ To his brother, he had said, "I was born on September 5, 1975." There was an answering echo in his head: _She was born just two months earlier, on June 10._ He had refused to meet Don's gaze when he told him, "I'm a tenured professor of applied mathematics at CalSci University". His expression did not change when he thought, _She was my student, then my colleague, and finally my reason to get up in the morning._ He had correctly named the new President of the United States before he had asked to be left alone for a while.

Now, he lay in the dark, on top of Don's bed, and waited to die. It wasn't so much that he wanted his own life to end; he just could not comprehend how it could continue, without her.

**………………………………………………………………………………………………………………**

Don had not yet bothered to pull the couch out into a bed. Even if he had not been checking on Charlie periodically, he did not think sleep was anywhere in his immediate future.

When his cell began to vibrate and bounce about on the end table, he reached for it right away, and noted Robin's name on the call display. Tears, unbidden, gathered at the backs of his eyes again and he blinked rapidly and swallowed once, thickly, before he flipped open the cell. "Hey," he whispered.

"Hey," she replied quietly. "How are you? How is he?"

"It's not good," he answered, and they let a few seconds of silence pass before he spoke again. "Thanks for pulling in some favors."

"It's no problem," she assured him. "I just wish there was more I could do – for all of us. Did you give Alan and Charlie my love?"

"Of course," he said. "I'm not sure it registered with Charlie, but Dad actually smiled. While Charlie was in the shower I told Dad you were pretty good friends with the coroner, and you'd convinced him to personally do the autopsy tonight."

"It was the least I could do," she murmured, and Don snorted lightly.

"That, and convincing a Santa Monica dentist to meet you at his office in the middle of the night and hand over dental records."

He could hear her sigh over the phone. "It was just…God, I can't use the word _'lucky'_…expedient, I guess, that I picked her up after her root canal a couple of months ago, or we wouldn't even have known who her dentist was, until Charlie was capable of telling us."

Don let a few seconds pass before he asked. "Has it been confirmed, then?"

"Positive I.D.," she answered quietly. After a few more seconds, Robin continued the conversation. "I'll come over in the morning," she promised. "Do you have anything to eat in the apartment, or should I bring some groceries?"

Don suppressed a groan. "I have half a box of _Lucky Charms_," he admitted, "and I drank the last of the OJ this morning. What would I ever do without you?"

"Permission to find out denied," she replied archly. "What should I bring? Milk? Oatmeal? Eggs? Maybe some frozen hash browns?"

"All of that," Don decided. "I'm not sure what Dad will want. Pretty sure Charlie won't want anything, though…. Which reminds me. I'm almost out of that tea he likes. And maybe…"

"I'll pick up some more coffee, too," she pre-empted, and in spite of himself Don felt himself smile. He thought about how good it was, to have a woman who read his mind, a woman who comforted and excited him – a woman who was breathing.

The smile dipped into a frown. "Every few minutes it hits me all over," he confessed. "I can't believe she's gone."

"I know," she agreed. "Our careers didn't do a damn thing to harden us against something like this, did they?"

"I guess not," Don sighed. "I guess not."

**……………………………………...........................................**

End, Chapter 4


	5. Juxtaposition of Heartbreak

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**

**_A/N: Here is your next installment, moments before I hit the freeway for my birthday road trip. I'm always reluctant to do such a thing mid-posting; what if something should happen? You would never know the end of the story! So, let me give you the highlights: The Bad Guy is after..YOU'VE BEEN PUNKED!_  
**

**....................................................................................................................................**

**Chapter 5: Juxtaposition of Heartbreak**

Sam Rumson regarded his team -- plus one. His eyes lingered for a moment on Nikki Bentancourt. "You're with Montez," he instructed gruffly. His gaze moved on to include the others. "Reed and Michaelson, you're together. Erickson and Mumford, that means you guys are a team. I want three databases created. Montez, you and Bentancourt find out every case Dr. Eppes has had any involvement with -- whether he consulted alone, or as a secondary. Reed, you and your partner do the same with Dr. Ramanujan. Erickson, Mumford; you'll need to work with everybody else to nail down instances when the two good doctors worked together -- exclusively, or with additional consultants. Databases should include the names of perps, and their current status: Dead, incarcerated, paroled, trial pending, whatever. I want details on the ones never charged or convicted of anything. Was a job lost? A marriage? What were the ramifications of the investigation itself?"

Agent Reed interrupted with a mild snort. "Even after we get all that, we'll spend the rest of _our_ careers tracking down alibis for all the suspects!"

Rumson frowned, his piercing blue eyes narrowing as he looked at Reed. "This is personal," he growled. "These are our consultants. More importantly, Dr. Eppes is the brother of our SAC, Reed. I think that's worth a little effort, don't you?"

Reed reddened and had opened his mouth to respond when Nikki pushed her way into the conversation. "We could ask that other little guy -- Fleinhardt? He's worked with Charlie and...Dr. Ramanujan on some of the consulting. Maybe he could take the databases we create and run some sort of search thing. You know, find the most likely suspects."

Rumson looked interested. "A pattern algorithim," he nodded. "Good idea, Betancourt. Of course, I'd rather have Dr. Eppes -- he's developed such things into a specialty of sorts -- but I don't suppose he's in any shape to help, at the moment."

Nikki shrugged. "Beats me." She sensed the entire team looking at her and shrugged again defensively. "I mean, probably not -- who would be, in his position? I haven't really had a chance to talk to anybody on my team about specifics."

Rumson shifted. "Yes. Of course. A.D. Wright did assign you to me, temporarily -- I suppose that makes sense."

Michaelson made a suggestion. "When the time comes, we can ask Fleinhardt what he thinks. If Dr. Eppes is...unavailable, maybe Fleinhardt will have another idea."

Rumson nodded, briefly but decisively. "Good point," he agreed. He crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his eyebrows. "What the hell is everybody waiting for?"

The agents scattered like buckshot. Time for some old-fashioned investigative work.

**.......................................................................................................................................**

Sanjay Ramanujan reached over the arm rest between the two aircraft seats and took his wife's hand. "Tapti," he said quietly, "it will be all right." She did not turn her head away from the window, but she did squeeze his hand, so he knew that she was listening. He continued to weave a tapestry of hope for his wife of 40 years. "You will see. When we finally arrive in Los Angeles, we will feel foolish for subjecting ourselves to this 28-hour-flight. The tests will be completed, and they will prove that it is not our Amita."

She turned at last to face him. Her eyes were dark, and shadowed with pain. "Charlie and Alan both saw her go into the garage," she reminded her husband gently.

This time he turned his face away, and his jaw worked for a moment as he regarded the back of the seat in front of him. "There will be an explanation," he finally responded. "Amita escaped, somehow."

"She would not let us feel such sorrow," Tapti murmured, moving her other hand so that she held Sanjay's between both of hers. "She would contact us. Charlie, as well."

Sanjay pulled his hand away from her. He turned his head to face her again, his expression stony. "If she was injured, we will tend to her. This is his fault, and we will not leave her in his care again."

Fresh grief washed over Tapti's face. "Oh, Sanjay," she whispered, reaching up to touch his face lightly. "It has only been a few months since we saw them -- do you not remember the expression in their eyes, whenever they looked at one another? Charlie loved our Amita; he would not harm her."

"I am not saying, at this point, that it was intentional," Sanjay argued, his tone almost sulky.

Tapti's eyes seemed to focus for a moment on something far away, and she dropped her hand to her lap, to clutch it with the other. "We have a layover in Frankfurt," she reminded him. "We can call for news."

Sanjay looked horrified at the prospect. Then he thought of the alternatives -- waiting until they finally reached LAX, and seeing his daughter's photo on the front page of The Times; or worse, being met at the air terminal by virtual strangers whose eyes would reveal the truth even if their lips did not -- and reconsidered. "Perhaps," he answered. "That might be best. We shall see."

Tapti nodded, and took his hand again. Then she turned her head to look out the window again, and she did not bother to wipe the tears from her face.

**..................................................................................................................................**

Don stood silent, in the kitchen. Alan, also silent, stood slightly to the right of Charlie, who was seated at the breakfast bar. A cup of coffee sat untouched before him. One hand lay in his lap, while the other pawed nervously at the spoon next to the coffee cup. He didn't look up from the counter when he spoke. "I'm not sure what to do," he said, his voice still raspy from the smoke he had inhaled the night before. "Shouldn't I be doing something?"

"Robin will be here soon with some groceries," Don offered lamely. "We can have some breakfast...and you promised to let me take you to your personal physician this morning. I already put a call into his service."

"That's a good idea," Alan concurred, his voice a dull reflection of itself. "You should get checked over, son."

Charlie sighed, but he did not argue with them. In fact, Don was not convinced he had even heard them. "Is there..." Charlie started, and then he stopped and swallowed visibly. When he continued, his voice was nearly a whisper. "Do I need to identify the -- the body?"

Don winced. "No," he answered quietly. "Robin tracked down Amita's dentist last night and got the records. The I.D. is confirmed. Remember?"

Charlie tilted his head for a moment, and then finally looked away from the coffee, toward Don. He nodded thoughtfully. "That's right. I think you told me that." After a slight pause, he spoke again. "I think...I'd still like to see her."

Don exchanged a quick glance with Alan. There was not that much left to see, and neither man was inclined to let Charlie go through that experience. Don dreaded his response, and tried to choose his words carefully. "Buddy," he said gently, "the coroner needed dental records. There was a fire." His voice cracked, and he stopped to clear his throat. "Please don't make me say any more," he begged, feeling every inch a failure.

Charlie paled and dropped the spoon, which clattered on the countertop so loudly that Don felt himself jump. "Oh," Charlie choked. "Oh. God." His pallor took on a tinge of green, and he suddenly clapped one hand over his mouth while clambering awkwardly off the high-backed chair in which he had been sitting. He would have gone down in a tangled heap if Alan hadn't moved up quickly to support him. Don took a few halting steps toward them, but they were already halfway to the bathroom before he got to the edge of the kitchen. He stopped walking and stood, watching his brother lurch down the hall, and didn't blame him a bit.

Don felt pretty close to throwing up himself.

**........................................................................................................**

The nursing home was very busy in the mornings. Personnel needed to help residents out of bed and deal with the morning meal. There were showers and bed baths to give, individual and group physical therapy. He had learned long ago that his presence in the mornings was more of a hindrance than a help -- so now, he never arrived until half-an-hour before lunch.

The aide always had Amy waiting for him, listing to one side of the wheelchair, but the overworked staff was more than happy to leave the details to him. First, he would greet his bride with a smile, a quick peck on the cheek. Then he would open the top drawer of her nightstand, withdraw her glasses, and walk to the sink to wash them before he put them on her. While he was there, he moistened a bleached white washcloth with warm water; when he returned to Amy, he tenderly washed her face, then let it dry as he moved to her gnarled hands. When he was finished with that, he placed the glasses on the bridge of her nose. With a lemon glycerin swab he would complete some oral hygiene before he moved to the rear of the chair, where he spent several minutes brushing out her long hair before rebraiding it.

Today, there had been an extra spring in his step, and he had lingered for a moment when he bent to kiss her. "I did it," he whispered into her ear. She showed no outward reaction as he continued his recitation, but he was sure she understood. "At first I was a little disappointed -- it didn't happen the way I was hoping -- but in the end, I think this was better. I think this will make him suffer more." He straightened, and she blinked when he lightly touched her face.

Yes...he was sure she understood.

He had just finished with her hair when a quickly moving aide brushed past the privacy curtain and dropped a tray on the bedside table. He murmured his thanks and lifted the lid -- and was surprised to find a dish of red gelatin cubes. He called after the girl. "Excuse me! Wait, please!" She turned in the doorway and waited for him to further complicate her day. He smiled so charmingly that she soon smiled in return. "I'm so sorry," he said. "It looks as if the kitchen made a mistake, again. Amy is supposed to get pudding."

In truth, the aide knew, most of Amy's nutritional needs were met by the product fed through a tube that led into her stomach; the pudding's purpose was to stimulate her appetite, encourage the swallowing mechanism -- and give her poor, devoted husband something to do. The girl took a step back into the room and let a certain sympathy enter her expression. "I'm sorry...I thought the nurse said she was going to call you. Amy has another UTI, and the doctor started a round of tetracycline this morning. Amy won't be able to have dairy products for about 10 days."

He frowned, and could not keep the dismay from his voice. "Another urinary tract infection? So soon?"

"It's the catheter," she answered. "Long-term use like this makes UTIs both more likely, and more difficult to control. I'm sorry." She glanced over her shoulder at the mayhem behind her when another aide dropped a lunch tray. "Can I get you something else? A different flavor, maybe?"

He shook his head, blinking back tears. "No, thank-you dear," he said, and she was gone before the sentence was completely out. He regarded the gelatin with distaste. Amy didn't like it; never had. He would only feed her a few bites; they would have an extra-long stroll, that afternoon, through the facility's manicured garden.

He settled in a chair beside her, the bowl of gelatin cubes in his lap, and began to feed her. With the first taste, Amy screwed up her face and let the gelatin dribble out of the side of her mouth. He was sure that she looked at him with accusing eyes that spoke of betrayal. He reconsidered again, and decided that she was right.

Eppes could never suffer enough.

**………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….**.

End, Chapter 5


	6. Investigative Techniques

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**

**_A/N: Here I am, all safe and relatively sound, considering my advanced age. Had a lovely 24-hours with my two "non-biological" sons and their wives; received two dozen roses just for showing up! Hope you enjoy the next chapter at least half as much as I enjoyed my brief road trip._  
**

**....................................................................................................................................**

**Chapter 6: Investigative Techniques**

Compiling the databases was not that difficult; consultants, after all, were paid for their work. Accounting kept very detailed records, and it was easy to determine on which cases Charlie and/or Amita had been requested. When David and Colby took Nikki to lunch, however, and she "accidentally" left the file folder on the table when she visited the ladies' room, things got a little more complicated. Both men were frowning when she returned. Nikki sighed and settled in her chair. She should have known this was too easy. "What?"

David answered first. "I don't see that vector analysis case from a few years ago. Probably because Charlie wasn't called in and paid by the FBI --- the CDC was part of that investigation, and they brought in Charlie."

Nikki's face fell, and Colby added fuel to the fire. "There was that plane that went down in the mountains, too. Charlie wasn't requested; he just showed up at the site." Colby smirked. "Don was a little P.O.d at first. Anyway, Charlie helped and all, but must've been on his own time -- I don't see it here."

David nodded. "I'll bet we'd find stuff like this on the other lists, too. Sometimes Amita is just helping Charlie -- she's not a paid consultant."

Nikki's eyes widened slightly as if she had a thought, then narrowed as she entertained another. "Sounds to me as if you guys should be brought in," she mused, almost laconically. "Charlie's been working with you, what -- five years? I'm gonna suggest to Rumson that he has you two compile your own database -- every case your team has worked on over that time. Flag the ones you can remember Charlie or Amita being part of, and then we'll cross-reference with the other lists."

"Way ahead of you," Granger smirked, winking at David. "We're already up to 2006."

Betancourt leaned back in her chair and scowled. "I'm sure you both think you're very clever."

"You can tell Rumson it was your idea" offered Sinclair kindly, and this time Nikki let a self-satisfied smile play over her face.

"Oh, I already did," she assured him, raising her glass of water. "I noticed that Charlie wasn't officially affiliated with the Buck Winters escape case, but he was all over it; figured he sometimes dropped by uninvited. So I talked to Rumson -- he wants your database by end of day."

David laughed and Colby shook his head, chagrined. "No wonder no other team leader laid claim to us this morning. I wondered about that."

Nikki arched an eyebrow and stood, preparing to lead the way out of the restaurant. "You boys keep trying," she advised. "Maybe someday, you'll be able to keep up with me."

**……………………………………………………………………………………………………**

When the Ramanujans had spoken to the Los Angeles County coroner via telephone from Frankfurt, they had provided the name of a local mortuary, so that Amita's remains could be released. Tapti wanted to view the body; in truth, Sanjay did as well, but the coroner had advised against that action. He had been brutally honest with Sanjay regarding Amita's condition. In the end, he knew he could not subject her mother to such a sight. He understood that the two of them craved a closure that would be denied them. To look upon their child now would bring them nothing but more heartbreak.

Sanjay took a few moments, then placed another call. By the time he and Tapti arrived in Los Angeles, Amita would be waiting for them -- in a box small enough to fit in their carry-on luggage, when they returned to India.

**……………………………………………………………………………………………………**

Millie was clearly uncomfortable. She had refused Don's offer of coffee, and she perched on the edge of the couch's matching chair, facing Charlie. He was sitting on the sofa for her visit, but one leg was bouncing up and down; he obviously wanted to be moving. For several hours before Millie arrived, he had wandered Don's small apartment like a caged animal, unable to sit still, unwilling to articulate -- or even identify -- his needs. Alan sat on the other end of the couch, and Don was standing near the window, his arms crossed over his chest.

Millie got right to the point. "Charlie," she said gently, "please accept my condolences for your loss. We all feel Amita's absence very deeply already." Charlie nodded silently and Millie glanced at Alan. "Of course, my sentiments include you and Don, as well. I know she was family to you all."

Alan started to thank Millie when Charlie suddenly spoke. "_Is_," he insisted. "Don't talk about her as if she's not part of our family, anymore!"

"Charlie," Alan murmured, "I'm sure Millie didn't mean to imply that Amita will ever leave our hearts."

"Of course not," echoed Dr. Finch. She shifted in the chair, almost as antsy as Charlie. "I won't stay long; I just wanted you to know that there's no rush, coming back to work. I'll be handling some classes myself, and Larry and several other of your colleagues have already stepped up to the plate. Volunteers have been in an out of my office all morning!"

"That's very kind of everyone," Alan said. Charlie just nodded in agreement.

Millie cleared her throat. "I've had several inquiries – from students as well as faculty and staff…" She paused, looked uncertainly at Alan and then back to Charlie. Eventually she cleared her throat again and plowed ahead. "…that is…Cal Sci would like to have a…gathering, on campus." Charlie stared at her unblinking for so long that Millie started to blush. She spoke almost defensively. "Amita was very popular, and administration feels that a memorial of some sort is completely appropriate." Her last words were rushed. "With your input, of course, Charlie."

Alan looked at his feet for a moment. When he raised his gaze, intending to look at Don, he saw that Charlie was standing. "Son?"

Charlie glared at Mildred. "I suppose I should be grateful that Amita was so popular," he said sarcastically. "Apparently, if I was the only one who truly understood what a remarkable, beautiful, intelligent creature she was, her death would not matter to the masses. By all means. Knock yourselves the hell out." Don took a step toward him, but Charlie held up a restraining hand. The hand was shaking almost imperceptibly, and for some reason, Don could not take his eyes off it. "Thank-you for coming, Dr. Finch," Charlie said coldly. He spun on his heel and nearly tripped over his own feet, pushing off Don's attempts at steadying him. "I'm going for a walk," he muttered. "I have to get out of here."

Millie and Alan both stood, talking over the top of each other. Millie was trying to apologize for upsetting Charlie, and Alan was trying to get him to stay inside. Charlie was almost running by the time he got to the edge of the living room.

Don followed him, throwing a glance toward his father. "I got it, Dad. I'll go with him."

Millie stood with Alan as, stunned, he watched his oldest son chase after his youngest. Don grabbed his keys off the hall table and loped out of the door, not even bothering to close it behind him. Alan found that he could not even speak when he turned to look apologetically at Millie.

She smiled in understanding and sighed. "That went well," she remarked. "I should get back to campus, where I can actually do some good."

Alan finally found his voice. "I'm sorry," he began.

Millie gently interrupted. "We all have a lot to be sorry about, Alan – but nothing for which to apologize."

He nodded, preoccupied and worried. "I just hope he doesn't do something stupid."

"His brother is with him," Millie reminded her friend. "Don will keep Charlie out of trouble. Amita's parents arrive this evening, don't they? Perhaps sometime tomorrow we can all meet again about the memorial on campus."

Alan nodded, and offered a small smile. "Thank-you, Millie. And thank-you for taking care of Charlie's classes."

She rested a hand on his arm as she leaned forward and pecked him chastely on the cheek. "I'll do whatever I can to help," she assured him when she pulled away. She narrowed her eyes a little as she studied his face. "You get some rest, Alan. Don't forget to take care of yourself."

He smiled, a little more committed to it this time, and nodded. "I will," he assured her, walking her toward the door. "Don't worry about me."

Millie smiled. "Oh, it's not you I'm worried about," she teased. "It's the twenty dollars you still owe me – you do remember losing that chess game, correct?"

Alan felt a genuine smile light his features for the first time in 24 hours. "Dr. Finch," he admonished. "I thought you said you'd take it out in home-cooked meals. You're welcome to come over, when we're back in the house."

Millie nodded. "Perfect," she replied. "I do love a good beef stroganoff."

**…………………………………………………………………………………………………**

End, Chapter 6


	7. Out for a Stroll

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**

**....................................................................................................................................**

**Chapter 7: Out for a Stroll**

Charlie gained momentum as he took the stairs two- and three-at-a-time. Waiting for the elevator had been out of the question, so the grief-stricken professor had jogged to the end of the hallway and gone down the fire escape. His vision was blurry with tears of frustration and anger by the time he reached the parking lot level, and he did not even recognize Colby when he encountered him at the bottom of the stairs. " 'Scuse me," he muttered when Granger's bulk planted itself in front of him.

Colby reached out and grasped Charlie firmly, squeezing the soft tissue just above his collarbone. "Hey. Charlie. Where ya goin'?" He grinned a little. "Wherever it is, you'd better slow down. I'm surprised you didn't break a leg on that descent."

Colby's voice penetrated his fog of despair and Charlie blinked at him. "I'm...What...I need...." He sighed, and dropped his gaze to their feet. "Wouldn't matter if I did."

Out of the corner of his eye, Colby saw Don burst out of the front door of the apartment complex. Removing his hand from Charlie's neck, he used it to signal his boss before frowning at Charlie. "Of course it would," he objected gently. "Like you need any more complications in your life right now, Whiz Kid."

Charlie quickly raised his head, his eyes flashing dangerously. "_Complication_?" He raised his voice, pushing a shaking index finger into Colby's broad chest. 'COMPLICATION? Amita wasn't a complication, you asshole! She was my _life_!"

Colby held up his hands, palm out, in a peacemaking gesture. "You're right. You're absolutely right, Charlie, I'm sorry. Poor choice of words." Charlie deflated, so much like a balloon that Colby half-expected him to start flying backwards across the parking lot. "So where are you going?" he repeated.

Charlie looked around blankly. "A walk. Air. Space."

By now Don had moved in to stand as near as he dared. He glanced at Granger. "We can do that, Buddy," he offered. "You, and me and Colby; we can walk for awhile."

Charlie shifted his feet and frowned. "Can't I be alone?"

Colby took pity on Don and delivered the potential bad news himself. "Sorry, Charlie. We don't know yet who...the intended target was. It's not really safe for you to go off alone."

Charlie sighed and side-stepped, striding for the street that fronted the complex. "Fine," he growled. "Just shut-up and follow me."

The two agents did as they were told, walking a few feet behind Charlie. Don watched his brother's back for a while -- literally. Alternately, he scanned the street and the sidewalk ahead for potential dangers; he looked for slow-moving vehicles, people who seemed to be loitering or out-of-place -- even unleashed dogs. "We should have him in a more controlled environment." He spoke to Colby, walking beside him, in a low tone of voice.

Granger matched his volume. "Technically, Don, he's not even in protective custody."

Don grimaced, unhappy with that truth. "What did you get, today?"

Colby sighed softly. "Rumson actually pulled me and Dave in. There are several cases Charlie or...several cases on which one or both of them helped, but they weren't paid consultants. Rumson wants to make sure those are included in the loop, and he figures David and I are the best resources to make that happen."

Don nodded. "Good," he affirmed. "On both counts. Rumson is a good man. If I can't work this one myself, I'm glad it's him."

Colby murmured in agreement. "Amita worked on fewer cases; Reed and Michaelson have already started to track down the primaries." Don lifted an eyebrow and waited. "They've got a few to go," Colby continued, "but we're not seeing anything obvious. Most of the perps are still in jail or prison; some are dead -- either killed during the take-down, or in a prison yard somewhere. A few are out. Awaiting trial, never convicted -- one was granted compassionate release, but he's dying in a nursing home and never gets any visitors, so I doubt it was him."

Don grunted. "This is probably pointless. Hell, it could be somebody who targeted Charlie to get even with me. It would take three teams working full-time for months to go through every case I've ever worked during my career."

"That would be a long shot," Colby mused. "Odds are it was somebody after one of them. Let's pursue that angle until it sizzles out."

Charlie suddenly stopped walking, and Don looked around worriedly, on instant alert. When he looked back at Charlie, his brother was facing them, his shoulders slumped and his face a study of despair. "I don't know where to go," he admitted plaintively. He looked at Don with heartbreaking dismay. "I can't find her."

Don's own eyes moistened and he started to take a step toward Charlie, but was surprised when Colby beat him to it. "Just close your eyes and concentrate," the younger agent advised. "You'll feel her; she'll be with you forever."

**....................................................................................................................................**

The remains of the garage smoldered behind the yellow tape of CSI when he strolled idly by the Craftsman. He had arranged a suitable prop, procuring a mutt from a craigslist® ad. The dog sniffed eagerly at the sidewalk, stopping every few feet to mark its territory; occasionally the animal pulled on the leash until reaching the grassy buffer of either side of the cement. There, he would drop larger offerings. The canine's new owner took his time scooping up the steaming excrement and negotiating it into the plastic bag he carried, all the while studying the property across the street.

His original plan had been to use the filthy cur as the perfect excuse to loiter, and then to wait until dark, take a drive, and release the damn thing on some unsuspecting suburban neighborhood. Once he got used to the distasteful task of picking up after the mutt, though, he found himself a little less enthusiastic about doing that. The dog was good cover when they were out in public – all anyone ever saw was the furry, wiggly creature. No-one paid any attention to its master. And he had to admit, even after only a few hours, the absolute devotion and commitment of the beast to its new best friend was touching. It had caught him by surprise, making his heart ache as he remembered why he was doing this in the first place.

Ever since Eppes took them away – his adoring bride and their beautiful, perfect infant son – no-one had loved him as much as this stupid dog did now. No-one's world had revolved around him for so long. So, so, long. He had missed it, missed being so important to another living soul.

Perhaps, when it was all over, he could keep the dog.

His eyes narrowed as he contemplated the scene across the way, shoving that possibility to the back of his mind. It was obvious no-one was staying at the house. They may have gone to a motel for a few days; or, they could be staying with a friend. Chances were, they would not return until the charred remains of the garage were knocked down and hauled away.

According to the story in that morning's _Times_, identity of the victim was all-but certain, since there had been witnesses. Much of the arson evidence had already been found as well – but he wasn't worried about that. He had spent the last two long, miserable years gathering ingredients, careful never to buy more than one item in any one location. Those locations were all several hours from Los Angeles, in every direction, and he had always paid cash. _He_ had done the deeds, and he doubted that he could even put it all together himself, now. There was less than no chance that any recovered evidence would lead to him, which was why he hadn't bothered to try to disguise anything.

He nodded, smiling, and stopped strolling for a moment. The dog planted its paws on his leg and reared up on hind legs; the furry head, panting eagerly, was at optimum height for stroking. There were still a few investigators searching through the debris, but the tape would not be up much longer. Within days, Eppes could hire someone to clean up the mess and haul it away. At that point, they would probably come home.

He buried his hand in the silky fur and let the feeling ground him, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. Just a few days to prepare, then.

He would be ready.

**………………………………………………………………………………………….........**

End, Chapter 7


	8. Anger is Easier than Grief

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**

**....................................................................................................................................**

**Chapter 8: Anger is Easier than Grief**

Alan turned to glance one last time at his youngest. Charlie stood sandwiched between Alan and Don, his face pale but for the dark circles under his eyes that testified of his sleeplessness. Alan frowned, glancing over the head of dark curls to exchange a look with Don before speaking. "You don't have to do this, son," he finally said softly.

Charlie's eyes flashed at him darkly before focusing on the door before them. "Of course I do," he countered. "Just knock on the door."

Alan sighed, then did as he was told. Moments later Sanjay Ramanujan opened the door of his hotel room and regarded the three Eppes coolly, his eyes lingering for a moment on Charlie. Finally he stepped back and to one side, silently inviting them to enter. "Tapti and I have just returned from the mortuary," he said. "Forgive us for not being able to meet you earlier."

Alan was a tad surprised. True, the Ramanujans' flight had arrived in the middle of the night, nearly twelve hours earlier, but for some reason he had assumed that they would wait for Charlie to accompany them to the funeral home. "That must have been very difficult," he said now, not without sympathy.

Sanjay tilted his head in silent agreement, motioning to the seating area in the suite's outer room. "Please," he said. The room contained a couch, which was separated from two overstuffed easy chairs by a glass-topped coffee table. Ramanujan moved to stand in front of one of the chairs. Alan and Charlie settled on the couch, and Don wavered for a moment on the edge of the group. Sanjay lowered himself to the chair, sparing Don a glance. "Please," he said again. "Tapti is lying down in the bedroom." Don nodded and approached the other chair while Sanjay turned his attention toward the couch. "I'm sure she would like to see Charlie before we leave," he continued, looking not at Charlie, but at Alan.

Alan slid his eyes toward his silent son quickly, and then back to Ramanujan. "How long will you be staying?" he asked politely.

Amita's father nearly knocked the breath out of all of them with his reply. "Our flight leaves tomorrow evening."

Alan's jaw dropped but Don started talking first. "So soon?"

Sanjay nodded. "There is no reason to stay. We spoke with the mortuary before we even arrived, and they were able to arrange rapid services."

Charlie found his voice -- just barely. "I thought you and her mother would stay for a memorial," he whispered. "A private service for family; Cal Sci would also like to arrange something more public on campus."

Sanjay's expression as he looked at Charlie reminded Don of someone who had found something distasteful on his shoe. "That is of no concern to her mother and I," he said coldly. "Our daughter's ashes will accompany us back to India, and we will arrange something there."

Alan bristled. It had not escaped his notice that Ramanujan was not exactly inviting Charlie to join them, nor that Amita's father was barely civil to his heartbroken son. "Now, just a minute!" he protested, scooting forward on the couch. "You had Amita cremated without even talking to Charlie, and you're taking her ashes back to a country she has only visited once?"

Sanjay frowned. "An unmarried daughter should rest with her parents," he said. His eyes flickered again to Charlie before returning to Alan. "Even in America, your son is not in a position to claim any rights over my child. She was not his wife; no legal tie exists." He stood, and looked down his nose at the still-sitting Alan. "All your son was willing to do for my daughter was get her killed. He is lucky her mother and I have no intention -- at this time -- of pressing charges."

Don jumped to his feet, taking a threatening step in Ramanujan's direction. "That's insane!" he erupted. "The investigation has just started! At this point, we don't know who is responsible for the pipe bomb in the garage, or who the intended vic was!"

By now Alan was on his feet as well. "Mr. Ramanujan," he started, his anger barely controlled, "I am truly sorry for your loss. I would not wish such a thing on any man; a parent should never outlive his child. But I will not allow you to heap any more pain upon my son! Charlie _loved_ Amita -- and she loved him. They _lived_ together; shared a life!" His voice broke and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. "My God, the girl was like my own daughter..."

By now all three men were talking over the top of each other, emphasizing their words with raised voices and aggressive body language. "DO NOT SPEAK TO ME OF LOVE," bellowed Sanjay, jabbing a forefinger at Alan's chest. "If your son truly loved my daughter, he would have taken her for his bride! He wanted only a _roommate_, to help with expenses and provide sexual favors!"

Both Don and Alan began to protest hotly, but their voices were overriden by an anguished, "That's enough! Stop, all of you!" Soon, Tapti Ramanujan was pushing her way to the center of the circle, and all three men automatically, if reluctantly, took a step back to allow her room. Her eyes flashed fire at Sanjay. "My husband." Now that she had everyone's attention, she lowered her voice. In the end, this had the effect of making her words seem all the more damning. "_You shame your family._"

The color drained from Sanjay's face, and he jolted back another half-step as if slapped. Suddenly he shuddered, blinking his eyes as if just awakening, and bowed first to Alan, and then toward Don. "Forgive me," he whispered as he straightened. "I should not have said such things."

Don's back was up by now, and he was not to be easily mollified. "I think you need to ask my brother's forgiveness," he started gruffly, and then let his mouth gape open as he looked toward the couch where Charlie had been sitting.

Alan followed his gaze, and was distressed to discover that his son had disappeared at some point. He started to turn and look around the room, bewildered. "Charlie?" he called, as if the younger man might pop up from behind the sofa.

Tapti turned on her heel and pushed past Don, headed for the door the Eppes had so recently entered. "He bolted from the room long ago," she reprimanded, looking back over her shoulder disapprovingly. She held up a hand when Alan and Don started to follow her. "See if you can converse as gentlemen," she suggested. "I shall find Charlie." Her eyes flashed toward Sanjay once again. "In my daughter's memory, I will cherish what she cherished."

**...........................................................................................................................................**

Charlie found a public men's room just off the lobby, and retreated there to think about his options. He and his father had ridden to the hotel in Don's SUV; Charlie hadn't even brought a set of keys with him. It had taken a good half-hour to reach the location from Don's apartment, in a vehicle. Charlie would run out of steam long before he could walk back. He probably had enough cash in his wallet for a taxi...but the lack of keys was still a problem. Even if he somehow got back to Don's, he wouldn't be able to gain entrance.

He sighed and paced from one end of the restroom to the other, stopping to study his face in the mirror. A brief glance; then he looked down, and turned the faucet handle. He leaned over the sink and used both shaking hands to splash some cold water onto his face, allowing the cool drops to mix with hot tears that he hadn't even realized had escaped, until he had looked in the mirror. He swallowed thickly and closed his eyes, bracing his hands for a moment on the edge of the counter. He wasn't sure how much time passed before he finally straightened and pulled a few paper towels from the receptacle on the wall. He blotted his face dry, sighed again as he threw the towels in the trash can, and squared his shoulders. He was a little surprised -- but relieved -- that neither his father nor his brother had tracked him down yet. He decided to wait in the parking garage, at the SUV. Once the decision was made, he frowned and hurried for the door, for he was completely unaware of how much time had passed since he ran from the Ramanujans' hotel room; it was possible that his father and brother were already at the vehicle, waiting for him!

He pulled the door open, took half-a-step into the lushly carpeted corridor, and then nearly fell back into the restroom in consternation and distress. The last thing -- the very last thing -- he had been expecting, was to find Tapti Ramanujan loitering in the hall outside the men's room. He grunted in surprise and staggered, reaching out to grab the door and balance himself.

Tapti tilted her head and smiled slightly as she extended a hand in his direction. "Take my hand, Charlie. I wish to speak with you privately."

The tilt of her head, her friendly expression...it was so reminiscent of Amita that Charlie found himself mesmerized, and quite unable to resist her request. He accepted the hand she offered and allowed her to lead him back into the main lobby, to a secluded seating area off to one side. Three well-upholstered chairs were grouped around a small, round table. When they reached the grouping, Tapti squeezed Charlie's hand once and then let go, lowering herself to one of the chairs. She gestured to the one that most fully faced her own. "Please sit," she invited. Charlie did as he was asked, but still found himself without words, so he just sat and stared at Mrs. Ramanujan.

She smiled again, briefly, and moved to perch on the edge of the chair. Her back was straight, her hands clasped together in her lap. "I apologize for my husband," she began. She looked directly into Charlie's eyes, and nodded as she recognzied the pain within them. "You understand that he is...bereft. This does not excuse his behavior, but perhaps makes it understandable. He seeks someone to blame, someone to hold responsible for the theft of his only child."

Charlie's voice was low and raspy when he replied. "Why wouldn't he blame me?" he asked. "_I_ would. I do."

Tapti's eyes darkened. "Whatever for?" she asked gently. "The police told us that Amita may have been the intended victim all along."

Charlie's eyes misted and he blinked rapidly. "It doesn't matter; don't you see?" he countered. "Whether someone came after her for her involvement on an F.B.I. case, or they were after me --- even if it was someone trying to punish Don by taking out his family -- all the reasons have a common denominator: Me. It's the life I dragged her into." He blinked again, slumping back in his chair. "I'm sorry. You have every right to hate me as much as your husband does."

Tapti frowned, and shook her head. "I do not hate you, Charlie -- and neither does Sanjay, in his heart of hearts. He will remember that, soon." Her eyes seemed to blur for a moment and she looked over his shoulder, as if focusing on something behind him. Then she redirected her gaze to Charlie again, her expression peaceful. Another smile played at her lips. "Besides," she reprimanded lightly, "that is not the commonality I see."

"What do you mean?"

Tapti leaned forward, and he could see a sparkle in her eyes. "The _'common denominator'_, as you say, is love. Amita loved her work, and was proud to be able to help in the investigations. She loved the challenge and excitement of the work itself, and she loved especially the cases she was able to work as part of a team with you. She loved _you_, Charlie -- and she loved your family. These are things I know about my daughter." She sat back and laughed quietly. "I also know that Amita was not often 'dragged' into anything. If you could have seen me trying to get her to the dentist when she was a child!" A smile wavered on Charlie's face, and Tapti returned the expression with a smile of her own. "She was always intelligent and independent, my daughter. She would not have been part of your life if she did not desire such." Her smile faded and her gentle voice became faintly reproving. "You know this about the woman you love, Charlie. You blame yourself for the same reason my husband has focused his anger on you. Anger is easier than grief; it is preferable to rail against someone – even yourself – if it means that you can postpone the reality of her loss."

A single tear escaped the corner of Charlie's eye and ran unfettered down his face. "God," he whispered. "I think that this might kill me."

Tapti's own eyes watered, and she had to take a few moments to compose herself before she spoke again. "I sometimes feel the same way," she admitted. "At those moments, I remind myself that she would never want that for any of us. I remember her love for me, and I promise to honor that love by enduring. There will come a time when our memories of Amita bring us more comfort than sorrow, Charlie. Someday, we will feel the warmth of the sun again. "

**........................................................................................................................................**

He had walked his temporary dog past the Craftsman several times in the last 36 hours. The hulking shell of a garage remained behind crime scene tape, but there had been little activity today; in fact, none at all for the last several hours. Investigators had probably easily found everything of supposed importance yesterday. The Eppes were still away from the property, and would most likely remain so until after the shell was knocked down and hauled away.

When he had passed that morning, pausing to let the mutt mark a tree as his territory, he had seen one of the neighbors feeding the koi. That gave him the idea, and during the afternoon he had driven nearly an hour-and-a-half to a Ralph's grocery on the edge of Los Angeles, where he had paid cash for several different items, including a 96-oz. jug of bleach. The last time he approached the house on foot that evening, it was well after dark -- nearly midnight, in fact -- and he was casually swinging a plastic Ralph's bag from one hand.

The moon was full, and it wasn't difficult at all to complete his mission. For this walk, he was on the same side of the street as the Craftsman. He dropped to one knee at the end of the driveway, and pretended to tie his shoe while his eyes searched the area for other late-night wanderers, or lights in nearby houses. Finding none, he stood and walked purposefully down the drive, as if he belonged there. Within moments he had crossed the lawn and positioned himself at the far end of the pond, hidden from view by the lush green landscaping Eppes had spent so many hours cultivating.

No, it wasn't difficult at all, and just a few minutes later he left the way he had entered, smiling broadly. This time the plastic bag was much lighter, however, since the jug no longer contained any bleach. He imagined that he could hear the fish gasping and coughing behind him, and he almost laughed out loud.

**............................................................................................................................................................**

End, Chapter 8


	9. I'll Kill Eppes

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**

**_A/N: Fair warning re tomorrow's installment: it's nearly time for the memorial on campus, so add facial tissue to your grocery list. It took me a month to write that section of the chapter; I kept stopping to sob (and I'm just pretending to like Amita)._  
**

**....................................................................................................................................**

**Chapter 9: "I'll Kill Eppes"**

Colby sat his mug of coffee down on the bar counter at the edge of the kitchen and shrugged. "So far, we've got a whole lot of nothing," he admitted. Don frowned as he topped off Colby's coffee from the pot he held.

Before he returned it to the automatic drip machine, he raised his eyebrows at Colby's partner, who was standing slightly behind Granger. "Dave? You sure you don't want any?"

Sinclair shook his head. "I'm all right; thanks, Don." He glanced quickly behind his shoulder and then back into the small kitchen. "How's Charlie?"

Alan answered from his position near the refrigerator. "He's still in bed. He hasn't been sleeping well anyway, and the confrontation with Sanjay Ramanujan yesterday afternoon didn't help!"

Don snorted before he buried his face in his own coffee mug, and Granger winced. "Yeah, that sounds like it was ugly…"

Alan took a step toward the stove, a carton of eggs in one hand. "I wish you boys would sit down," he implored. "Let me get a good breakfast into you before you head in to the office! Robin was nice enough to stock the kitchen – I could scramble the eggs – or how about French toast?"

David grinned at Don and shook his head. "Mr. Eppes, thanks, but…"

Alan set the eggs on the counter and whirled. "It's _'Alan'_, David!"

"_Alan_," David corrected. "We're actually meeting Larry for breakfast – gonna see what kind of search algorithim he might be able to design for us."

Don nodded. "Good idea."

Colby picked up his mug again, and paused with it halfway to his mouth. "By the way, the CSI guys are basically finished at Charlie's house. They should have the crime scene tape down by noon."

"Good," answered Alan. "I'll make some calls, later. I want that garage bulldozed and the area landscaped before we take Charlie back there. Ordinarily, I'd do the landscaping myself, but speed is of the essence in this case."

Colby nodded into his coffee and David murmured in agreement. Don just frowned, and Alan started to turn toward the refrigerator again. "Why don't you let me make some breakfast sandwiches for you and L…" Granger and Sinclair were spared the rest of Alan's latest breakfast idea when the cell on the waistband of his jeans chirped. Alan started a little before he reached down to grab the phone. "I hate these things," he grumbled. "A man's pants should not ring." Colby swallowed his coffee wrong and started coughing. David pounded him on the back a few times, suppressing a smile, as Alan pushed past them in the narrow entryway to the kitchen. "Careful, son," he advised, patting Colby on the arm as he passed. "Excuse me, boys; I'll take this into the living room."

David waited until Alan was out of sight and earshot before he smiled at Don. "Pretty small apartment to contain your old man," he commented.

Don snorted again, this time in humor. "Sinclair, _L.A._ is too small to contain my old man," he noted drily. He turned his attention to Colby, who was still coughing occasionally. "You ok?"

Colby took a few deep breaths. "I'll never be able to hear my cell again without thinking about my pants ringing," he moaned, and David and Don both grinned.

Don shook his head slightly and steered the conversation back to safer territory. "_Anyway_," he observed, "that's good thinking, bringing in Larry. Hopefully he can suggest a way to speed things along a little."

"That's what we're hoping," agreed David, then stopped speaking abruptly as Alan came back into view, returning from the living room. The older man's expression was grim, and he seemed a shade or two paler than when he had taken the phone call.

Don's eyes followed Sinclair's gaze and he took a step toward his father, meeting him at the end of the kitchen's bar counter. "Dad?"

Alan lifted troubled eyes to meet his and then looked pointedly at Colby and David. "You can probably stop looking at the Amita connection. I think Charlie was the target."

Don stiffened. "Why?", he barked.

Alan held up his cell phone. "That was Len Richardson, from next door. He went to the house to feed the koi this morning and found every last one of them dead, floating on the surface of the pond. Something like that is no coincidence, or accident – I'm thinking poison, maybe added into their food, or directly to the water."

"Shit," breathed Don. He gripped his father's upper arm with one hand while he looked at his junior agents. "Get Rumson on this; have the food and water tested; hell, do the FBI's first koi autopsy if you have to!"

Colby nodded. "We'll call him before we leave for CalSci. Alan's right, it's starting to look as if Charlie is definitely the target. His garage, his fish…"

David interrupted. "The fish pretty much eliminates even you, Don. It's one thing for an enemy to target your family in order to get back at you, but you haven't even lived at the Craftsman for years; the fish are obviously one of Charlie's passions." His expression darkened. "And the garage represented his biggest passion of all – years of research was in there."

Don dropped his hand from his father's arm and raised it to push back his own hair. "God," he mused. "We've all been concentrating on Amita so much, I hadn't even thought of that. He was anal about transferring everything he thought was important from the boards to his computer, and backing up once a month – every month, on the 1st – but the back-ups were all stored in the garage, weren't they, Dad?"

Alan looked miserable, and it was clear he was entertaining the thought for the first time, himself. "Yes," he agreed despondently. "He used to keep the CDs and DVDs in some boxes in his closet, but before Amita moved in I teased him and said she might prefer keeping her clothes in the house, and the work in the garage. I even helped him put up some shelving in there, and he organized everything very neatly. Eppes Convergence, Cognitive Emergence, notes for _The Attraction Equation_ and a sequel he's considering…Dear Lord, he's lost everything!"

The men had been so distraught, no-one had noticed that Charlie had left the guest room and come down the hall to join the edge of the group until he spoke. "Don't worry about the work, Dad," he said softly, and they all turned to look at him. "When I showed Amita what I had done, she insisted that I burn more back-ups and store a set in my office at CalSci." A sad, bitter smile passed over his face. "Seems she didn't think the garage was all that safe. Turns out she was right."

**……………………………………………………………………………………………………**

Colby and David stood in the observation room and watched the interrogation through the one-way glass. Both were literally itching to be in the box with the suspect themselves, but Rumson, understandably, had refused to consider it. David was stoic, still, standing as close to the glass as he could get, right next to the speaker; Colby was in a state of constant irritable movement, pacing the observation room like a caged animal. Occasionally he would even emit a growl. Rumson was standing a few feet away from David, intently watching Stan Reed and Kent Michaelson.

They were the best interrogators on his team, hands-down. In fact, Rumson had seen few better in his time. Among the elite group was Don Eppes. Granger and Sinclair also played off each other well, and made the cut when they worked as a team. If this case was happening to some other agent in the office, if Eppes and his team weren't so close to it, Rumson would have had all three of them in on the interrogation from the start. That was an impossibility, however; not only would their own involvement negatively affect their productivity (whether they could see that or not), Rumson didn't want any grounds for a possible dismissal later on. He had seen Eppes allowed into interrogations when he probably shouldn't have been; both Eppes and the Bureau ended up paying a price. Reed and Michaelson were no runners-up, though, and Rumson had sent them in with confidence. Now, he just gritted his teeth and waited for them to deliver.

Michaelson sat silently on one side of the table, facing the suspect. Reed stood, with bored affectation, in a corner of the room several feet away, casually regarding his manicure. "You've got no alibi for either night," he yawned. "You have enough motive to satisfy any jury – because of Dr. Eppes' involvement in your case, the embezzlement was discovered and tracked easily to you."

The man at the table sneered. "Fat lot of good that did you idiots," he baited.

Michaelson leaned forward. "So, there was a problem with the search warrant. Even though the case was thrown out of court, it didn't stop you from being thrown out of your cushy job, Crane."

Reed started to walk lazily around the room, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. "Didn't stop the civil suit, either," he noted. "Now you're using your fancy MBA to wash dishes at a greasy spoon, and ordered to make restitution of almost 750 thou, on minimum wage." He stopped behind Crane and leaned over slightly. "Still living alone in that flop house you moved into when the wife and kid left? Damn shame about that automobile accident, by the way -- she probably was too upset to be driving at that time of night."

Crane's face darkened ominously, and Michaelson spoke again when Reed resumed his roaming. " 'Course, all that pales in comparison to the threats you made in open court." He looked down at his notebook. "Says here when you saw the good doctor in the courtroom, you promised to kill him." He looked back up and smiled. "Several times. Using assorted techniques."

Crane began to look uncomfortable for the first time. ""I was understandably upset," he defended. "People say stuff. I told you, I was at a bar the night of that fire, and with a hooker when the fish were poisoned."

Reed finally sat at one end of the table, and lifted his legs until his feet rested on the surface. He glanced at his partner. "Another damn shame, how nobody at the bar remembers," he drawled. He looked at Crane and twirled an imaginary mustache. "Can't seem to locate the hooker, either."

Crane shuffled his feet and glared at them as Michaelson snapped shut his notebook. "Says here that you're screwed," he shared in an almost friendly voice. "Right next to where it says you made a few interesting purchases last month at a hardware store."

Crane swallowed. "I want an attorney."

**…………………………………………………………………..................**

End, Chapter 9


	10. Saying Goodbye

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**

**....................................................................................................................................**

**Chapter 10: Saying Goodbye**

Sanjay and Tapti Ramanujan had agreed to stay in Los Angeles for Amita's memorial on the campus of Cal Sci. There had been no further discussion of any additional services -- if the Ramanujans were having a ceremony in India, they still weren't inviting Charlie. As for the professor himself, he found that he couldn't bear to go through the motions more than once. In some ways it felt wrong, being required to mourn at such a public spectacle; but in other ways, it was right to have the memorial at Cal Sci. The campus was full of places and people she loved -- and this was where they had met, so perhaps this was where Charlie should say good-bye.

It was a somber group that surrounded the slight man, almost like bodyguards, as they entered the gymnasium where the service was being held. Students and colleagues had entered some time before, and there was a low murmur that faded in degrees as Charlie and his entourage progressed up the center aisle, toward a block of folding chairs reserved for them. A portable stage had been set up at the North end of the building. The stage was adorned with potted plants and flower assortments of every description, including no fewer than four impressive funeral sprays on stands. Centerstage was a small, round table, covered with an ivory cloth made from Indian silk. A fine Irish lace topped the table covering. The table displayed two items; one was an 11 x 14 enlargement of Amita, which had been made from a digital print that Charlie kept framed on his desk. The photo had been taken the year before, when the two of them had managed a long weekend in Carmel. Amita had been standing on the beach, her dark hair blowing around her face, smiling happily at Charlie and his camera. The other item on the table was the urn that held Amita's ashes. The glazed, black, porcelain was decorated simply with a dark purple blossom of lotus, the national flower of India. A standing microphone was placed in front of the stage; it was from here that speakers would address the crowd.

Don sat on one side of Charlie, Alan on the other. The Ramanujans sat next to Alan; Robin was on the other side of Don, and Larry sat in the last chair, on the aisle. He felt slightly out of place -- most other friends of the family, such as Don's team, sat amongst the general population, but Charlie had asked Larry to stay close. As long as Dr. Fleinhardt had known Charlie, he had rarely been able to deny him anything -- and he certainly could not deny him this -- so Larry stayed with the Eppes. Millie opened the service, providing a synopsis of Amita's life and her brief career at Cal Sci, before turning over the microphone to Sanjay Ramanujan.

His comments were brief, somewhat stilted. He tilted his head to indicate Tapti. "My wife and I," he began in a quiet voice, "thank you all for your many kind expressions to us during this difficult time." He cleared his throat. "Amita..." He stopped, and cleared his throat again, looked at the floor of the gymnasium for a moment, and then looked back at the crowd. "Amita was our only child. In Hindi, the name 'Amita' means 'limitless', and that is what she always represented to us. Her talents and beauty were limitless, and our love for her was limitless. We are comforted that she found happiness and fulfillment here, at this university, in this country..." -- he turned his head slightly to regard Charlie, who was staring at his knees -- "...even a limitless love of her own." His gaze slid to lock with Tapti's as he concluded his brief address. "There is, unfortunately, also no limit to the sorrow that we feel at this moment." He looked at the audience once more. "We thank you again for your compassion -- and, for loving our child."

Sanjay returned to his seat, and Larry approached the microphone. "Dr. Amita Ramanujan was indeed limitless," he intoned. "I have had the pleasure of working with some very great minds in my time, and hers was among the best." He smiled crookedly in Charlie's direction; his friend still regarded only his own knees. "More impressive was her heart," he continued. "From her enthusiasm for her work, to her passion for teaching, to her fire for my best friend...Amita did nothing by halves." Charlie finally looked up, and Larry still addressed his words toward him. "As an astrophysicist, Amita would no doubt argue that it is not scientific to think of her as a brilliant meteor in our atmosphere, shooting through our lives in a burst of energy and phosphorescence that leaves us breathless, and full of wonder." He turned his attention to the crowd. "It is my hypothesis that she would be incorrect, for one of the few times in her career." He pivoted to regard Amita's photo. "I shall always remember your light, my dear."

Larry returned to stand at the end of the aisle, and Alan, clutching a soggy handkerchief, edged past Charlie and Don. He stopped to embrace Larry before he took his place at the microphone. "My name is Alan Eppes," he said. "Some of you I know as fellow students; Amita encouraged me to go back to school, and I'll always be grateful to her for that." He smiled tenderly in Charlie's direction. "Some of you know me as Dr. Eppes' father. That has also been a challenging role, I assure you." Soft laughter rippled through the gymnasium. Alan waited for it to quiet, moving his gaze to the Ramanujans. "I have lost much in my lifetime," he finally said, "but only because I was blessed with much. I loved my wife a great deal, and I still miss her every day. I loved your daughter a great deal as well. I expect to miss Amita for the rest of my life. She was full of joy, and brought peace and delight to my son, and to myself." He bowed slightly toward Sanjay. "I thank you for creating such a charming creature." When he straightened, he placed a hand over his heart. "My soul is burdened for you." Almost imperceptibly, Sanjay nodded in response, and Tapti reached across the empty chair to lift Charlie's hand from his lap, and take it in her own. Alan concluded his speech. "I have two sons." He looked at Robin, and smiled slightly. "The daughters I will have are the women they love; I'm happy to report that they've both made excellent choices." Robin smiled and the audience tittered, again. "If I could choose my own daughters, I would not choose differently," he stated emphatically, his eyes back on the Ramanujans. "Dr. Amita Ramanujan is unfortunately missing from my home -- but she will always be in my heart."

Don shifted a little when Alan returned to the row, so that his father could squeeze by him and reclaim his chair. Don had briefly considered speaking, but after a talk with Robin, had decided that he didn't want to upset the Ramanujans more than they already were. As far as anyone knew right now, Amita was dead because Charlie was targeted by Jack Crane, a suspect in a case he had worked on at Don's request. Although Robin and his father tried to convince him it wasn't his fault for letting Charlie get involved in F.B.I. cases in the first place, Don still felt responsible -- and he imagined that the Ramanujans might feel that way about him as well. When Alan was settled in his chair, there was a brief pause in the service. This was the point at which Charlie was supposed to speak, although no one knew if he'd be able. He sat staring blankly ahead for so long that Millie started to stand, intending to return to the microphone, where she would introduce the next participants. Charlie stood at the same time, and she sank back into her chair as he edged his way out of the row and walked slowly to the microphone.

He stopped to stand and stare at the display on stage for several seconds, finally turning to approach the mic. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet that it was difficult to hear him, even through the sound system. "Thank you all for coming," he said. He paused, looked over his shoulder at the photograph of Amita again, then returned his attention to the crowd. "When I close my eyes," he continued, doing just that, "I see Amita's beautiful face. I can see her smile, hear her laugh, feel her small hand in mine…and I never want to open my eyes again." He stopped speaking and simply stood before them with his eyes closed. Even though the gymnasium held hundreds of people, it had become almost completely silent. Don felt as if he didn't have to strain his ears at all; it was easy to hear his brother's heart breaking. After a few long seconds, Charlie opened his eyes again, and looked directly at the Ramanujans. "That would be wrong; I'm a better, stronger man, for the years I shared with your daughter. To give into the temptation to stop this pain now…" – he shrugged – "it would not honor the woman I love." He seemed to square his shoulders as he took a deep breath and looked back at the crowd. "I want the world to know that a remarkable, talented, intelligent woman changed us all while she was here…" Now, he turned his head to smile sadly at Alan. "I'm sorry to admit that I have not always chosen the honorable path," he said. "Loss…grief…they are teachers, too, and I had much to learn." He dropped his gaze to the floor, seeming to run out of steam. "I'm sorry, I…" He looked helplessly toward Millie, who stood immediately and joined him at the microphone.

"Thank you, Charlie," she said quietly. Don couldn't stand it any longer; he practically leapt from his chair and went to fetch his brother. Millie introduced the university's string quartet as Don led Charlie back to his seat.

After the quartet presented a requiem by Mozart, the floor was opened to anyone who wished to speak. Charlie sat mutely through the memories and testimonies of dozens of students and fellow faculty members. Even some of her classmates from her own college days were in attendance. The stories were bittersweet; brief memories of an all-too-brief life. When Amita's former landlady reached for the hand-held microphone being passed through the crowd, Don felt Charlie slump beside him. He looked at his brother, concerned, and met Alan's eyes over Charlie's head; their father had felt Charlie wilt as well.

Charlie was pale, and his respirations were rapid. His eyes were closed, and Don felt the beginnings of panic; had Charlie passed out? He was trying to turn in the seat to more fully face him, without removing the bulk of his body from serving as Charlie's support, when Charlie's eyes fluttered and he turned his face toward Don. "I need some air," he whispered.

Alan had heard him and moved as if to stand, but Don shook his head. "I've got him," he whispered. "I think it's almost over; you stay. We'll be waiting by the car." Firmly, he grasped Charlie's forearm and stood, bodily lifting his brother with him. Charlie stumbled a few times as the two men exited the row of chairs, but he stayed on his feet. Don moved to a position beside him when they were both in the aisle. Placing his left hand lightly on Charlie's back, he gripped his brother's shoulder and steered him toward a gymnasium exit.

He didn't even register the sympathetic looks of Colby, David and Liz as they passed by where the agents were sitting. Don's focus was on Charlie. There were several people standing near the exit; Don's brusque "Excuse us", combined with the protective glint in his dark eyes and the stony set of his chin, parted them like the waters of the Red Sea.

Don tightened his grip on Charlie's shoulder, and ushered him gently into a life without Amita.

**………………………………………………………………….............**

Eppes had walked right by him, at the memorial.

He passed so closely, in fact, that their eyes met for a moment, and he easily could have reached out to touch him. The bastard just looked away, and continued his sad and dignified walk, as the woman's family and friends surrounded him like a warm blanket on a cold night.

It galled him to witness the parade, for he had been denied such comfort for years. Since his lovely bride was essentially stolen from him, he had been forced to sleep alone every night. He had not been allowed to seek the haven of her arms as he adjusted to the loss of his child, and the dissipation of all the dreams and plans that had been centered around the boy. He was _glad_, _happy_ to return the favor. Perhaps the woman had not been the original target, but her death served his purposes well. Eppes was clearly heartbroken, misery etched into the lines of his face.

Good.

**............................................................................................**

The Ramanujans and the Eppes had time for a meal that no one ate before Sanjay and Tapti had to be at LAX. The meal was largely silent; every individual at the table was exhausted from the memorial service, and unable to think about much, other than Amita. Eventually, Alan took a stab at conversation. "Perhaps you should try to get on another flight," he suggested. "You must be completely drained."

"Another day or two will not address the problem," Sanjay responded briefly. "When the light disappears from your life, you are left only with darkness."

Alan wasn't sure quite how to respond to that -- he had never been much for senseless platitudes, and was even less inclined in that direction since hearing so many from ill-prepared well-wishers after Margaret's death -- so he snapped his mouth shut in a grim line and turned his attention to his meal.

A few minutes later, Tapti spoke. "It was a lovely memorial," she said. "Thank you for convincing us to stay. It is a comfort to understand just how many people respected and admired our Amita." She looked directly at Charlie. "And to realize how deeply she was loved."

Charlie had stopped pretending to eat long ago, and just stared miserably at his plate, still full of food he had not even ordered; Alan had ordered it for him. Don watched him for a moment, and then glanced at his father, who was blinking rapidly at his own meal. Don tried to float the conversation. "Yes, I thought Millie did an excellent job with the arrangements."

A few people at the table nodded in agreement, but silence reigned for another three minutes before Sanjay looked at his wife, who felt his attention, and turned her head to smile and nod at him. Sanjay nodded in return, then placed his napkin carefully next to his plate and lifted his water glass, pushing back his chair at the same time. He took a sip of water, replaced the glass on the table and looked at directly at Charlie. "You will come with me," he said. Realizing almost immediately that his request sounded more like an order, Sanjay bowed his head in a show of respect, and added, "Please." Both Alan and Don made moves as if to stand, but Sanjay stopped them. "If I might speak to Charlie alone?" He stood, and offered a wobbly smile. "On my word of honor, there will be no repeat of my earlier, reprehensible behavior."

Charlie was sitting between Don and Alan, and they both scooted their chairs to the side so that he could stand and exit the dining room, following slowly after Sanjay Ramanujan. Tapti saw concern darken their faces and leaned forward a bit to touch Alan's arm briefly. "I am certain Sanjay will behave," she said. "Tell me, Alan, about your fish. I quite enjoyed the koi pond when Sanjay and I visited your home last year."

**.........................................................................................................**

Charlie and Sanjay walked to the Ramanujans' rented vehicle. When he had reached the passenger door of the back seat, Sanjay turned to face Charlie. "As you know, Tapiti and I planned to take Amita's ashes back to India with us."

Charlie blanched, and put a hand out to steady himself against the car. "I understand," he whispered.

Sanjay's face took on an expression of kindness. "You do not," he said. He opened the car door and leaned inside, withdrawing the urn of ashes. When he had straightened, he caressed the porcelain absently as he spoke. "Tapti and I were very moved by your words at the service. It caused me to remember the joy in my daughter's eyes, the last time I saw her. It brought to mind the love I heard in her voice, each time she spoke of you. Amita made her choice, and she was happy with it; you and your family loved her well. No parent could want more for his child." He stopped speaking for a moment, and turned his gaze downward, to the black receptacle that contained his daughter. He looked at it for a long moment, then lifted it at the same time as he bowed his head slightly, to tenderly kiss the cold surface. Then he extended his arms toward Charlie, offering him his burden. "It is right that you should have Amita. She chose you, as you chose her."

Charlie gulped and regarded the urn warily. "What…what do you want me to do with…the…ashes?" He was whispering by the last word.

Sanjay continued to hold out the urn. "Whatever you feel is appropriate. Interment, or scattering…there were many locations the two of you loved to go together, were there not?"

Charlie still didn't reach for the urn. "I…think…I think Amita would like the idea. There…there's a place we tried to go early every summer, on her birthday. Palomar Mountain State Park; we'd hike the trails." He was warming to his story now, his eyes reflecting a dreaminess as he remembered. "Last year, we laid on our backs in a meadow covered with dogwood blossoms…she said she'd like to lie there forever."

His voice trailed off at the end, and Sanjay waited for Charlie's eyes to focus before he thrust the urn at him again. "And so she shall," he remarked quietly. "Tapti and I will hold Amita in our hearts always…but perhaps, you can send us a photograph of the meadow?"

Charlie finally accepted the urn, holding it as if it was a fragile egg. One hand rested beneath the porcelain, and the other lay gently on top. "You could come back," he suggested almost shyly.

Sanjay used one of his newly emptied hands to wipe at an eye, and shook his head sadly. "I thank you for that, Charlie. We would very much like to see a photograph, or even a video of the ceremony…but Tapti and I cannot bear much more."

"I know," Charlie whispered, "I know…"

**…………………………………………………………………...................**

Don had listened to Tapti and Alan discuss now-dead koi as long as he could, before he pushed back his chair and headed for the entry of the restaurant. Charlie was in no shape to withstand any more verbal abuse from Sanjay, and Don was not as trusting as his father. Maybe Alan was ready to accept Tapti's assurances, but he would rather see with his own two eyes that Sanjay was behaving himself.

He arrived at the glass door just in time to see Charlie accept the urn from Amita's father. There was a stab of grief in his heart, even as there was also a sigh of relief upon his lips. Despite Sanjay's earlier protestations to the contrary, he was leaving Amita's cremains with Charlie. He blinked rapidly as his vision clouded momentarily. He knew several things at that moment. One was that Sanjay Ramanujan was a father consumed by grief. Another was an inkling of the feelings he would have, if he was holding Robin's ashes in his hands.

The third was that Charlie was perhaps the strongest man he knew.

**…………………………………………………………………...................**

End, Chapter 10


	11. Payback's A Bitch

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**by FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**

**....................................................................................................................................**

**Chapter 11: Payback's a Bitch**

Part of him wanted to drag out Eppes punishment; make him suffer for years, just as Eppes had made Amy suffer. The more rational part of him knew that it made sense to finish it when the man was already vulnerable. The two sides of him warred, until the day he arrived at the nursing home to find a doctor in Amy's room. She had endured a seizure that morning during her shower; she was secured to the shower chair, but the unrestrained movements of the seizure had propelled the entire chair onto its side. Her head slammed repeatedly into the tile floor, long after she was unconscious. She was conscious now, but battered almost beyond recognition, and moaning continuously; the doctor suspected a fractured arm as well, and was transferring her to the hospital.

Uncontrollable rage swept through him. Amy had already been through so much.

He followed the ambulance to the hospital, and waited until an injection relieved Amy's misery. He smoothed her hair as she slept, careful to avoid the white square of gauze that covered the laceration on her temple. By the time a technician arrived to take his bride away for a CT scan, his mind was made up.

Eppes' debt was past due.

.**.....................................................................................**

Colby rolled his eyes at the expression on Don's face. "_What's the matter now_? I thought this was good news! Maybe we don't have enough evidence to charge Crane with arson and homicide, yet, but we will -- especially now that LAPD's got him on another charge!"

David agreed. "The judge even agreed with the D.A. that Crane's a flight risk because of the pending investigation, and set a high-enough bail to keep him off the streets; at least for a few days. Robin said she thinks it's the highest bail ever set in this state for passing bad checks."

Don leaned back in his chair and ran his hand over his head. "I'm just not sure he did it," he admitted.

Colby's eyebrows shot up. "Why? Because he hasn't confessed? Don, he's got motive, a flimsy alibi..."

"I know," Don interrupted. "On paper, he looks good for it. But come on, Granger, when's the last time neither one of us could break a suspect in the box?" He sighed. "Reed and Michaelson don't lose that often, either. Even after Rumson decided to let _me_ have a go at Crane --I wasn't picking up on any of the usual signals; he held my gaze the entire time, and his eyes were clear. His voice was steady. Not even a flicker of pleasure crossed his face when he heard that someone had died in the explosion -- and we hadn't even told him yet that it wasn't Charlie."

"He's good;" shrugged David, "but he's not perfect. Before he finds a bailsman willing to take a risk on him, we'll have all the evidence we need." He held up a folded piece of paper. "This search warrant is for his house, his office, even the locker he uses at his gym. We'll get him, Don."

His voice was determined, and Don couldn't help the wry grin that twisted his lips as he stood and prepared to follow his team members from the bullpen. "You're probably right," he conceded. "I just get a little shaky when someone tries to blow up my brother."

**............................................................................................**

Alan glanced up from his chair when the doorbell rang at three that afternoon. He and Charlie had come back to the Craftsman after the memorial service; the landscaping had been done for about two hours, by Alan's estimation. Charlie had insisted that Don go back to work, but he himself had not even mentioned returning to campus; nor had he done any work at home.

Colby and David had managed to clean and restock the koi pond before Alan and Charlie returned, buying fish Alan recommended from local dealers he knew -- but Charlie hadn't even been out there since coming home. Now that there was no garage for him to disappear into, he just sat on the couch for hours, completely motionless. If Alan gave him a direct order -- "Come and eat, now", or "It's time for bed" -- Charlie would follow willingly enough, but for much of the last four days, he had spoken only when spoken to, responding briefly in a raspy, unused voice. He slept in the solarium, unwilling to use the bed he had so recently shared with Amita; the urn containing her ashes sat in the middle of his desk in that room. Alan had watched him, each of the last three nights, as Charlie opened the door and stared silently at the urn for a moment, almost as if he was saying 'good-night', before closing the door again and continuing on to the solarium.

Now, Charlie showed no sign of having heard the doorbell. Alan had been pretending to read a book, but he hadn't turned a page in almost half-an-hour. He kept looking at Charlie over the edge of the book. He sighed, set his book aside and heaved himself out of his chair. Charlie didn't even look up when Alan crossed in front of the couch.

The eldest Eppes was frowning slightly when he opened the door. A stranger stood on the porch, tightly clutching a leash that led to the sorriest-looking, most nondescript dog Alan had ever seen. "Yes?" he inquired, anxious to get back to where he could keep an eye on Charlie.

The stranger smiled. "I'm sorry, sir. I was walking my dog past your lovely home; he spotted a cat running across your yard and bolted -- ripped the lead right out of my hand. He never caught the cat, but I'm afraid he plowed through some of your rose bushes."

Alan forced a smile. "Good thing they're not in bloom, then. I'm sure the cat's fine; it's probably my neighbor's. He likes to torment the fish in the pond."

The stranger kept smiling. "They can call 9-1-1 the next time it happens; when I tackled the dog, my cell phone flew out of my hand. It's fish food, now."

Alan laughed briefly. "Oh, no!" He took a step out onto the porch. "Let me get the net out of the garden shed, and we'll fish out the phone; maybe you can return it for another?"

The stranger shrugged, pulling back to allow Alan access to the sidewalk. "Couldn't hurt to try," he agreed amicably. "I really appreciate this. Sorry for the trouble; I just got the dog at the pound last week, and he's full of surprises."

"No trouble," insisted Alan, leading the way around the back of the house. "The net is right inside this..."

His mouth formed a perfect "O" when he turned around to face the stranger, and found himself instead facing a handgun. They were standing in the shadow cast by the shed, which blocked the view to the neighbor's yard. The back of the house could not be seen from the street, either. He raised both shaking hands. "What...what do you want?" he whispered.

The stranger tilted his head, and seemed to consider the question. "You have a valid point," he answered. "I should probably at least try to make this look like a robbery. Although given all your family has been through lately, I'm not sure the authorities will be fooled by that ruse."

Alan's eyes widened. "You...the garage? The fish?"

The man looked pleased. "My handiwork," he boasted.

"Why would you do those things?" Alan begged. "My poor son...his fiance went into the garage!"

Again, the head tilted. "Yes. At first I found that unfortunate; my plan was for it to be you. I watched, for several weeks; I knew you kept the fish food there, and went into the garage every evening to get some. It should have been you..."

Alan was flabbergasted. "I...moved the food, earlier that day...out here, to the shed. It's closer to the pond, and Charlie needed more room...my God, I don't even _know_ you! Why would you come after me?"

The dog woofed, impatient to get moving again, and the stranger absently patted its head. His eyes narrowed, and filled with hatred. "I can see that you do not recognize me. You didn't recognize me at the woman's memorial service, either. Did my own family mean so little?"

Alan flailed for an answer, not even understanding the question. "No...I..."

The gun waved perilously close to his face. "Your design was faulty. Oh, of course the city covered it up -- but I know why that overpass collapsed! You were the lead engineer!"

Alan's face blanched, as his worst memory came rushing back. "Oh, dear Lord," he said softly. "The 6th Street overpass...the 1979 collapse...there were cars under the overpass..."

The stranger sneered, and waved the gun again. "You ended my life that day," he growled. "Killed my baby boy, and stole my beautiful bride..." He leaned a little closer to Alan, and the dog barked twice more. _"I'm just sorry I can only kill you once."_

At that moment, several things happened in quick succession. The stranger lifted the gun to a more threatening position -- and the back door of the house opened, behind Alan. "Dad," Alan heard, "is there a dog..."

Before Charlie finished the question, while the stranger was still distracted by his sudden appearance, Alan launched his full weight at the man. Unfortunately, he telegraphed his move to the dog, which leapt up to block his attack on its master, barking furiously. The pull of the dog's weight on the leash threw the stranger off-balance, and he staggered back half-a-step, the gun waving as he tried to keep his feet under him.

In the midst of the confusion, a shot rang out.

The dog yipped shrilly, arching its back and falling away from Alan. The older man was still knocked off his feet, and he landed hard on his rear, right next to the still-twitching animal. "My God," he mumbled dumbly, as a hand gripped his upper arm and started pulling him upright.

"Get the hell up," hissed the stranger. "Now you've killed my damn dog, too!" He kicked at the canine corpse; a large, bloody entry wound was plainly visible on the exposed side of his chest. When the dog flopped over after his master kicked him, an even larger, bloodier, exit would became visible on the other side of his rib cage. It was no wonder that he had died almost immediately, having been shot at close range, apparently right through his loyal heart.

"Dad…" Alan heard a croak, and swiveled his head to look toward the back porch, even as he was tugged unceremoniously to his feet. The breath caught in his throat when he saw the bright circle of blood blossoming on Charlie's t-shirt, just above his waist. "Dad…"

Charlie's legs began to shake, and Alan knew his son was going down. He pulled desperately against his captor, no longer concerned with the gun that was still perilously close to his temple. "Charlie!" he yelled. "Oh, God! Oh, my God, son!"

Edgar Bloomfield saw the blood at the same time as Alan, and realized that the same bullet that killed his dog had gone on to wound Charlie. It was perfect; he could not have planned it any better. Now the old man would have to watch his son die.

He let go of Alan and let him run to the porch, following at an almost leisurely pace. Charlie was on his knees now, one hand pressed over his stomach, confusion and fear in his eyes. "Dad?" he asked breathlessly.

Edgar redirected the handgun, so that it was pointed at Charlie's head. "Get him up," he ordered. "Take him inside. Now."

Alan saw that Bloomfield's new target was Charlie; he rushed to do exactly what he was told, before the gun went off again.

Bloomfield smiled and almost closed his eyes in pleasure. Eppes would watch his son die…and then Edgar would kill him. He didn't care about evidence, fingerprints, gun registrations…he intended to save the last bullet for himself, anyway. When the authorities found them all dead in Eppes' fine house, it would only be a matter of time before someone ferreted out the story. Then, the whole world would know what the bastard Alan Eppes had done to them all.

The whole world would know: Payback's a bitch.

**………………………………………………………………….....................**

End, Chapter 12

.....................................................................

_**A/N: A dozen virtual roses to Lisa Paris, who was the first to correctly identify Alan as the target!**_


	12. Is That An Ablibi? full title inside

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**FraidyCat**

_**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**_

**_A/N: Perhaps I should have said, "No REAL animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic." Certainly, the author does not condone shooting your dog through the heart, any more than the author condones blowing up people. It's important to remember that this is not a documentary, but a work of fiction; complete with plot devices. Read at your own risk. (Should that turn out to be a bad risk, consider the current state of the stock market -- most risks you take this year will be bad.)_  
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**Chapter 12: Is That an Alibi, or Are You Just Happy to See Me?**

Colby eyed Don critically as he depressed the 'send' button and submitted his report on the Sanderson homicide. The case had been cut-and-dried, almost boring in its simplicity. Sanderson's wife had intentionally leaked the information that connected her accountant husband to organized crime. It had been enough for LAPD to throw the case to them, but half a day of investigative work blew as many holes in the idea of a mob hit, as the widow Sanderson had blown into her husband. Liz and Nikki had picked up on the signs first; searching the laundry basket, Nikki had found several dress shirts with lipstick on the collar. Going through the closet of suits, Liz had detected _Shalimar_; but the perfume on the wife's dresser was Calvin Klein's _Eternity_. Then David, going over the couple's personal accounts, had noticed a payable to a local private detective. One phone call later, and the team knew the widow Sanderson had paid to have her husband followed. The PI had provided her with photographic evidence of Mr. Sanderson meeting a young blonde woman at a local motel.

The rest, as they say, was history.

Colby stood, grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, and started for the elevator, pausing at Don's desk. His SAC looked exhausted; fine lines of grief and despair still etched his face. "Dave and I are going out for a few beers," Colby said. "You should join us, Don. We're not on call, tonight."

He knew what Don would say. "I should go to Charlie's."

Colby sighed. He respected his friend for being so supportive; he really did. Still…Colby decided it was time for a little intervention. "Don...dude, we all feel for Charlie. And he _does_ need some special consideration right now...but he's gonna need that for a while, man. You're wearing yourself out. Charlie and Alan need a healthy Don, not one they have to visit in the hospital."

Don's lips twisted in a wry grin. "Let me get this straight. You're saying I should go out for a beer _for my health_?"

Colby smiled. "Yeah; I see your point. Seriously, I'm saying you need to relax a little. Shrug the world off your shoulders for a few hours."

Don hated to admit it, but he was tempted. "I should at least call," he hedged.

Colby was about to point out that Don had a phone sitting right in front of him, when they were interrupted by a husky, sultry, feminine voice. Neither one of them had seen the visitor approaching; the elevator _dinged_ so much around quitting time that they had just assumed another _ding_ was part of the mass agent exodus.

"Excuse me, gentlemen."

Colby turned to face the source of the statement, opening up Don's view. Both agents were momentarily stunned silent. How could they not have heard a 6-foot woman in 5-inch heels?

She tilted her head a little and smiled. She pushed a cascade of red hair behind one ear. "I understand you've been looking for me."

Colby tried his best to look directly into her emerald-green eyes, but his gaze seemed drawn to other parts of her anatomy. As if the triple-D bosom was not mesmerizing enough, her dress was so short he was afraid to offer her a chair, and the long legs she revealed were tan, toned, firm.... He blushed, completely unable to locate his voice.

Don stood, intentionally bumping into Granger. "Ma'am?"

She winked at Colby, whose gaze dropped to her shapely ankles even as his blush deepened. "Is one of you connected to the Jack Crane case? I'm pretty sure this is where I was supposed to come."

Colby heard the word, 'come' and nearly lost consciousness. He sagged into Don, who had managed to pull himself together nicely; proof why he was the SAC, and not Granger.

"I'm Agent Eppes," Don said, extending his hand toward the apparition. "My speechless colleague is Agent Granger. What can we do for you?"

She accepted his hand with one sporting inch-long, bright red nails. Rather than shaking Don's hand, she squeezed it warmly and let a teasing quality enter her voice. "Oh, any number of things, I'm sure. Perhaps when we've finished with _your_ business, we can discuss _mine_."

Don dropped her hand and shoved his own into the pockets of his jeans. He ignored her comment. "Do you have information about Jack Crane?"

She sighed, which caused an impressive heaving of her chest, and tossed her head. "I'm his alibi. His escort, if you will."

Don frowned. "That's impossible. We sent people to all the places Crane said you could be found." Even as he said it, he could feel a black knot forming in his gut. Crane had been specific in his description of the hooker. At the time, the agents had thought the man was describing the fantasy woman in his head to stall for time, but now that this Amazon stood right in front of him, Don could see the similarities.

She shrugged. "I was in the hospital for a few days," she said in her husky voice. "I developed a nasty chest infection."

The absurdity of the statement -- how could an infection in that chest be anything but nasty? -- helped Colby locate his voice at last. "How did you know we're been looking for you?"

She flashed a bright smile at him as a reward for conquering the difficult task of speech. "I went to the bar where Jack and I usually meet. It wasn't our regular night, but I've got a hospital bill, now -- I was hoping he'd be up for a quickie. Billy -- the bartender -- he told me Jack was in the slammer, and that some FBI guys had been looking for me. He still had your card." She winked again at Colby. "Then he took me back to the office. Turned out I didn't need Jack for that quickie, after all."

Colby flushed crimson again, and glanced at Don -- mostly to rest his eyes from the strain, for a moment. Don was looking back, worried. "If Crane has an alibi for the night the koi were killed, he could have been telling the truth about everything. The night the garage blew up, when he was supposedly in a bar -- he said it was a bar he'd never been in, before. It's not unusual that no one would remember him."

Colby managed to forget about the woman right in front of him and nodded thoughtfully. "Crane could be in the clear."

Don suddenly jerked, turning around to grab his keys off the corner of his desk. "Somebody else did it," he announced with authority. "I've got to get to Charlie's." Without another word, he took off in a dead run for the elevator.

Colby gestured to one of the other agents still in the bullpen; Davis, working the night shift. "Call Rumson!" Colby shouted, loping after Don. "He's going to want a statement from...Miss...."

"....Kane," she purred, fixing her gaze on Agent Davis. "Kandy Kane."

**..........................................................................................................................**

Somehow, Alan managed to pull Charlie to his feet and shove him through the back door, into the kitchen. Edgar Bloomfield followed closely behind, and stopped Alan when he opened a drawer full of clean dish towels. "No first aid," he ordered. Bloomfield caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a dryer in another room off the opposite end of the kitchen. He shoved Charlie in that direction. "Laundry room," he hissed.

Charlie stumbled, and Alan barely kept him upright. "Please," he begged. "At least let me put him on the couch. I'll do whatever you want."

Bloomfield laughed harshly. "You'll do whatever I want anyway," he growled. "You've got thirty seconds to get him back there, or I'll drop him where he stands."

Alan tightened his grip on a frighteningly silent Charlie and propelled him toward the laundry room. Besides the washer and dryer, the room held an ironing board, a cold iron perched on one end, and shelves to hold laundry supplies. A full basket of dirty laundry sat on the floor. Alan kicked it to one side and carefully lowered Charlie to the floor, so that he could sit leaning against the wall. Charlie's eyes were glazed with pain and shock, and Alan knelt next to him. "Please," he asked again. "Let me help him."

Bloomfield stepped directly next to Charlie and buried the gun in his curls. "Get away from him," he ordered. "Across the room."

Feeling as though he was ripping, Alan looked desperately at Charlie, who spoke for the first time since he was shot. "Go, Dad," he whispered. "I'm okay."

Bloomfield laughed again as Alan scooted across the room and leaned against the wall, in a position from which he could easily see his son. "That would be a shame," he said. "If you don't bleed to death soon, I may have to shoot you again." Slowly, he withdrew the gun enough so that he could sit cross-legged on the floor, just a few feet from Charlie.

"What...what do you want?" asked Alan in a trembling voice. "Why won't you let me help my son?"

Bloomfield kept his weapon trained on Charlie, but he looked at Alan with unadulterated hatred. "I want you to suffer," he spat. "I want you to suffer for what you did to my family. It will never be enough...not for all the years Amy has wasted away; not for all the years I have lived alone; not for the loss of my son...but it will be something. It has been so _good_, to watch the pain you felt, when the woman died. It will be even better when you watch your own son die."

Alan blinked back tears of desperation. "Please...Dear God....just kill me, and let my son go. _I'm_ the one you want to punish."

"Dad..." began Charlie, but Bloomfield talked over him.

"Exactly. There is no greater punishment than for a man to watch his son die. Did you know that my baby boy lived almost two days after that bridge collapsed? I had to split my time between Amy's room and the infant ICU...but I saw enough, and I was there when he took his last breath." He smiled grimly. "It's only fair that I offer the same to you."

Alan shook his head slightly. "I'm very sorry about your family; but, there was an investigation! There was no engineering problem with the bridge; the contractor used substandard materials. He lost his license, and went to prison!"

Charlie was staring at his father with wide eyes. Alan had gone through all this when Charlie was only four years old, no doubt enduring an investigation himself, before the blame was found to be with the contractor. Yet in his entire life, Charlie had never heard a word about this. He had never heard his parents refer to this time, which had to have been incredibly painful. Even as a 4-year-old, he had been too wrapped up in numbers to see anything else.

Bloomfield wasn't buying the story. "My brother did day labor on the construction of that bridge. He said there were no substandard materials, that the city just picked a likely scapegoat to cover its own guilt!"

Alan's expression darkened. "Your brother lied to you," he said. "Do you think he wanted you to know he was partially responsible for what happened to your wife and son? If he worked on that bridge for any length of time, he knew about the substandard material -- 10 construction workers testified that they knew, and didn't report it."

Bloomfield climbed clumsily to his feet, waving the gun at Alan. "Shut-up!" he screamed. "None of those 10 workers went to prison; they would say whatever the city wanted to hear, to keep their names out of it! _SHUT-UP!_" Enraged, he spun around to face Charlie again, bringing the gun with him. Before Alan could say anything else, Bloomfield buried another bullet in the wall over Charlie's head. Charlie paled dramatically and winced. Bits of paint and drywall fell into his curls.

In the enclosed room, the sound was deafening. Alan didn't even hear himself scream.

**........................................................................................................................**

Len Richardson was standing in the middle of the driveway, cell phone to his ear, when Don screeched the SUV to the curb in front of the Craftsman. By the time he and Colby tumbled from the vehicle, Len was fast approaching them across the lawn. "Don," he greeted breathlessly. "I just called 9-1-1; dispatch is trying to get in touch with you." As if to prove his point, the cell phone hooked to the waistband of Don's jeans began to vibrate.

He ignored it and met Len on the grass. "Why?" he asked, anxiously. "What's going on?"

Colby had joined the two men, and Len looked from one to the other. "I'm not sure. I was in my back yard, cutting down some weeds with my trimmer. I thought I heard a dog barking over here, but I know Alan and Charlie don't have a dog. I heard something like a backfire a couple of times, too; I thought it was my grandson, working on that old car of his -- you know, the one he's building from spare parts? His folks won't let him keep it at home, so he works on it in my garage."

"Right," encouraged Don impatiently. "Do you think now it wasn't him?"

Richardson looked nervously over his shoulder. "That's just it; when I mentioned it to my wife, she said Davey hasn't been to our place at all today. I went about my business for a while, but the more I thought about all that's happened over here, the more I felt like I should come over and check on Alan. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore, and I started toward the back, the kitchen entrance." He swallowed, and shuddered a bit. "Don, there's a dead dog back there! Least, I think it's dead; didn't seem to be moving, and it looked awfully bloody...I got spooked, and high-tailed it back out front. Called 9-1-1."

Don's blood turned to ice. With one hand he removed his weapon from its holster; with the other he guided Richardson toward the SUV. "You did exactly the right thing," he assured the neighbor. "I want you to stay behind this vehicle," he instructed. "Call 9-1-1 again; tell them _'shots fired'_, and that there are agents on site requesting silent back-up." Not waiting for an answer, he turned and jogged back to where Colby waited. "Let's go," he said tersely.

Colby nodded. "Around the back?" he questioned.

Don nodded, running in a crouch for the line of rosebushes at the edge of the driveway. "Stay down; keep cover between us and the house."

The two men made their way methodically to the southwest corner of the house, darting from rosebush, to Alan's Acura, to Charlie's Prius, to another row of rosebushes. At the corner, Don let his weapon lead the way as he went low, and Colby went high. When they had successfully entered the back yard, the dead and bloody dog became immediately visible. "_Shit_," whispered Colby, as he and Don pulled back against the rear of the house. "_What the hell did that?_"

Don grimaced. "I doubt it was a car backfiring," he answered.

He started to move again, but Colby pulled at his arm. "Don," he said, still whispering. "Maybe we should go back to Charlie's Prius; once we've got cover, we can call your Dad's cell, Charlie's cell, the house landline...if we can get somebody to answer, maybe we'll find out what we're dealing with."

Don shook his head, adamant. "I don't want to create a hostage situation," he argued. "If Charlie or my Dad could easily get to a phone, one of them would have called us, by now."

Colby nodded. His next statement conveyed his opinion that Don was probably right -- and that Colby was committed to backing him up. "So," he said. "How're we gonna do this?"

Don silently thanked him with his eyes before dipping his gaze to the bark beneath their feet. "I'll get closer to the kitchen window, grab a handful of bark, and toss it; it won't make a loud sound when it hits the window, so if they're in another part of the house, they won't hear it. If somebody comes flying out the kitchen door waving a gun -- well, we've located the perp."

Colby nodded again. "Hit the dirt as soon as you make the toss," he advised. "I'll cover you from back here."

"Think I can handle that," Don muttered. "If nothing happens, we go in through the kitchen entrance. Ready?"

"Ready," Colby agreed, half-standing and backing up so that the corner of the house concealed him from anyone coming out of the kitchen. He trained his weapon above Don's head, at the porch.

Don holstered his own gun and crawled on his hands and knees until he was almost directly below the window. He glanced back to check Colby's position, then grabbed a handful of bark. He lobbed the bark toward the window; even he could barely hear the sounds of contact. Immediately he flattened himself against the earth, and held his breath.

He counted to forty-five, painstakingly, slowly letting out his breath and inhaling again, before he cautiously rose to his knees. He liberated his weapon once more, and waved Colby forward without turning to look at him. When he felt Granger arrive at his back, Don gestured silently at the porch, rose to a crouch, and continued his assault on Charlie's house.

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End, Chapter 12


	13. Nobody Irons Anymore

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**FraidyCat**

_**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No REAL animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**_

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**Chapter 13: Nobody Irons Anymore**

Charlie was holding his hand over his wound, no doubt applying pressure, and Alan could see blood slowly seeping out the crevices between his fingers. Soon, his hand would be covered in the stuff; Alan could not bear it. When he tore his eyes away from the bright red blood, to look at Charlie's face, he saw that his son had reclined his head back against the wall. His eyes were closed; he was pale, and as still as…death. A gutteral moan escaped Alan and he looked at Edgar Bloomfield again. "Please, I'm begging you. Please, _please_ show me the mercy you feel I denied you -- be a better man than I am. Please, will you give Charlie a towel out of that basket?"

Bloomfield made a noise of disgust, looking down at Charlie in a detached, disinterested way. "No, I will _not_ give Charlie a towel; that would negate the entire experience. The point is for him to die, and for you to watch."

Charlie's eyes had opened to slits; he was looking toward his father, but Alan wouldn't stop. "What...what about your wife? Amy? Would she be proud of what you've done in her name?"

Bloomfield snarled like a cornered animal and kicked viciously at Charlie's leg. Both father and son made noises of distress; Charlie drew his leg up to his chest and tried to scoot closer to the ironing board, as if it offered him some protection. _"YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO SAY HER NAME!"_ bellowed Bloomfield.

He drew back his leg to land another kick, ignoring Alan's choked plea. "Don't...."

_"How dare you..."_ Bloomfield began, and then he stiffened. He cocked his head, much like the dog he had killed would have. "What was that?" he said, half-turning toward the doorway that led to the kitchen hallway. He glared suspiciously at Alan. "What was that noise?"

Alan, backed into the far corner of the room, had not heard anything but Bloomfield's rage. "You probably broke something in my son's leg!"

Bloomfield hesitated, then backed over to Charlie. Without taking his eyes off the doorway, he leaned to pull up on Charlie's left arm. "Get up," he commanded. "We're going into the kitchen to look out the window."

Charlie grunted as Bloomfield pulled him to his feet, and Alan protested, moving in his corner. "Please, leave him alone! I'll go, I'll go!"

Bloomfield considered; perhaps it would be wiser to take the old man. Charlie was wounded; Edgar wasn't even sure he could drag him all the way to the kitchen. He pushed Charlie roughly into the washer, and Charlie's knees buckled. As he went down, he reached out and grabbed a fistful of Bloomfield's shirt.

**…………………………………………………………….....................**

Don waited until Colby had slithered up the three steps on his stomach, like a GI searching for a foxhole, and was lying at a slight right angle to the door. Then Don took off his shoulder holster, and hooked it around the door knob. He would twist the knob slowly with his hand; when the latch disengaged, he could pull the door open using the holster with his left hand. In his right, his weapon would be at the ready, covering Colby as he crawled inside the kitchen. Ideally, Don would use both hands to fire his weapon; using one would affect his aim. Short of growing another appendage on the spot, though, this was the best he could do. At least he regularly practiced one-handed shots on the range – this wasn't a totally foreign position to him – and the plan was to slow the perp down, if he was in the kitchen; distract him until Colby could get into position and find cover somewhere. If the kitchen was empty, Don would follow Colby inside, wedging his holster in the door so that it didn't slam.

His hands were sweaty, and he rubbed them on his shirt before he started. So slowly that it was agonizing, he rotated the door knob. He felt the latch give, and let go, grabbing the holster and raising his weapon simultaneously. Colby tensed.

The door swung open just far enough for Colby to start moving inside. No bullets greeted his entry, for which Don was grateful. He crawled into position behind Colby, and followed his feet into the house. Colby took refuge behind the kitchen table; Don was still halfway through the door when he heard his father's voice, full of desperation and barely controlled panic. "Please! Leave him alone! I'll go, I'll go!"

Don froze, and met Colby's eyes across the kitchen. _Shit. _They were in the laundry room – and apparently, they were coming out.

**……………………………………………………………….............**

Charlie wasn't the biggest man in the world under the best of circumstances, and he had lost weight since Amita's death. Still, 140 pounds of dead weight was enough to put Bloomfield seriously out of balance; especially when Charlie intentionally hooked a foot around one of Bloomfield's ankles and tugged for all he was worth. Bloomfield, who outweighed the youngest Eppes by sixty pounds, crash-landed directly on top of him -- expelling all the air from Charlie's lungs. One of Charlie's arms flailed desperately; the other was trapped between his body and Edgar's.

Bloomfield shouted in rage and twisted, pushing himself off Charlie's unmoving chest with one hand. His other hand still held the gun, albeit somewhat awkwardly -- the weapon had nearly flown from his grip when he had fallen. He had just managed to get his finger back on the trigger, when Alan buried the iron in the back of his skull.

Bloomfield fell on top of Charlie for the second time, and the gun discharged under the last reflex of his life, the bullet burying itself benignly in a box of fabric softener sheets.

**....................................................................................................................**

Don threw all caution and plans out the window when he heard the crash of Bloomfield and Charlie hitting the floor. He scrambled to his feet and barreled into Colby, who had also climbed to his feet, and was preparing for a frontal assault on the laundry room. The two agents went down like bowling pins. Don's head slammed into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, and for a moment, he saw stars.

Bloomfield's enraged cries soon had both men on their feet again, however. This time, Colby hung back and let Don take the lead. Running through the kitchen and then the corridor that passed a walk-in pantry on one side, and the downstairs bathroom on the other, before opening up to the laundry area, Don arrived at his destination with his weapon at the ready.

He arrived just in time to watch Alan Eppes kill his first man.

**..............................................................................................................................**

Generally, a body was left where it was found until photographs had been taken. Alan was already tugging at Bloomfield, calling Charlie's name, when Don and Colby joined him. They moved Bloomfield's body as little as possible, checking for a pulse and signs of life as they did. Charlie was still conscious, and he tried to help by pushing, but his hand kept flying to his throat; he was still waiting for his collapsed lungs to reinflate. A tinge of blue was coloring his pale face, a fact that none of the other three men was happy to see.

Don and Colby were even more disheartened to see the blood staining Charlie's t-shirt when they lifted Bloomfield out of the way. Don immediately got to his knees and lifted Charlie's shirt to see the wound. His brother kept his eyes glued to his father, who was holding one of his hands in one of his, and brushing back his curls with the other, speaking to him in gentle and soothing tones. Colby ran from the room to the bathroom next door, almost tearing the door off the medicine cabinet over the sink. He grabbed a Red Cross first aid kit, and ran back to the laundry area, pausing only long enough to call 9-1-1 from his cell and request an ambulance. Charlie was finally gasping for air when he returned, and the blue tinge had all-but disappeared from his face. His lips were moving, but it took several more seconds before he managed to form a word.

Eyes still latched on Alan, Charlie squeezed his hand when he said it. "Sorry..."

**.....................................................................................................................................**

There was a shallow cut over Don's eyebrow; he had allowed a nurse to place a butterfly bandage on it, but only because his father insisted. Charlie had been whisked away from the Craftsman, which was now teeming with the Crime Scene Investigation forensic team for the second time in a month. Rumson, who was also on the scene, allowed Colby to drive Alan and Don to the hospital. It wasn't until Michaelson and Reed showed up in the waiting room that Don heard the story from the beginning.

Part of him wanted to insist that the agents wait until later to get his father's statement; part of him saw the interview, conducted in a private waiting area in the ER, as a blessed distraction for Alan while they waited for news about Charlie; part of him was frankly curious as hell. In the end, _all_ of Don ended up sitting next to his father and hearing, for the first time, about the bridge. He couldn't believe he had never known about the collapse; he had been nine years old, and certainly old enough to watch television news or read a newspaper. Charlie's gift had created worry and tension between his parents, and he had experienced no difficulty picking up on _that_ when he was young. His parents must have struggled mightily during this experience, but they had been very careful to ensure that their sons knew nothing of their distress. Even when he and Charlie were older, Alan and Margaret -- more recently, just Alan -- had continued to guard the secret. Don's heart ached when he realized how long his father had lived with his burden alone. The man had _always_ been there for him; Don just wished he could have returned the favor.

When Michaelson and Reed had all the details they needed for a preliminary report, they respectfully left Don and his father alone in the waiting room. They sat silently for a moment, and then Alan sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, Donny. I had no idea the bridge collapse could be responsible for all this. Once the investigation settled on the contractor, I never heard another word about it." He shifted uncomfortably. "I used to _think_ about it a lot...and always on the anniversary of the collapse...but I admit, it's been a few years since I've even done that."

"There was no way you could connect this to something that happened 30 years ago," Don responded. "Even if I _had_ known about it, I probably wouldn't have made the connection myself." He hadn't meant for the comment to sound accusatory, but Alan sounded a little defensive when he answered.

"Your mother and I didn't want you boys to know," he said. "Charlie was four years old -- and already in second grade. He was having some social adaptation problems, and we thought we might have to pull him back out of school. You were so excited about the junior baseball league -- you were finally discovering something, for the first time since Charlie was born, that pulled you out of his shadow. There was enough going on in the house without this.... Besides, it's a parent's job to protect his children."

Don knew that now was not the time to point out that both he and Charlie had grown up since then. "It's okay, Dad," he murmured.

Alan lifted his chin a little, and steel entered his voice. "That responsibility never ends, son. Bloomfield was killing my child right in front of my eyes. I did what I had to do."

Don placed a hand on his father's arm. "You did," he assured him. "I wish you had not been faced with that choice, but you made the right decision."

Alan turned his face toward Don; the son could not quite read the expression in the dark eyes that regarded him calmly. "There was no decision," Alan objected mildly. "There was no choice to be made. I feel the same way about you, every time someone tries to kill you -- even though it's part of your job. Protecting you boys is part of _mine_. It always has been, and it always will be. You'll..."

Don smiled and patted his father's arm. "I know, I know. I'll understand when I have children of my own."

Alan smiled back. "And they say your brother is the smart one."

**............................................................................................**

End, Chapter 13


	14. Hospital Daze

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**FraidyCat**

_**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No REAL animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**_

**……………………………………………………………………………………………………**

**Chapter 14: Hospital Daze**

David had joined Colby in the large ER waiting area; when a woman in green scrubs, carrying a clipboard, appeared and called for the family of Charles Eppes, they escorted her to the private room that Don and Alan still occupied. Then they loitered as close to the doorway as they dared.

The woman smiled at the Eppes, who both began to stand. "Please," she said, stopping to shake their hands before sinking into another of the room's overstuffed chairs. "Keep your seats. My name is Anne Trenton; I'm the attending physician here in Trauma."

Alan tried his best to smile, but what resulted was a shaky substitute. "Alan Eppes; this is my oldest son, Don."

The woman nodded at them. She opened the clipboard and glanced down. "Tell me. Does good luck run in the family?"

Don felt a surge of hope, but tamped it down until he had more details. "Charlie's going to be okay?"

Dr. Trenton smiled again. "It certainly looks that way. Charlie's most serious injury, of course, is the abdominal GSW. The MRI showed that the bullet -- a .38 slug -- actually missed all the major organs; it missed hitting the lower lobe of the liver by less than a centimeter. It was nestled in the fold of the transverse section of the large intestine and the descending section, but there was no intestinal perforation. Our hypothesis is that passing through the animal's body both slightly altered the trajectory of the bullet, and decreased its speed. The surgeon on call was able to remove it here in the trauma bay, without subjecting Charlie to even a laproscopic procedure. Still, considering that your son and brother was moved around after the injury, it's amazing that more damage was not done."

Alan exhaled loudly, and rubbed a hand over his face. "Thank God," he said. "There was so much blood..."

The doctor agreed. "There was substantial blood loss, but I don't believe a blood transfusion is warranted. We have him on a saline IV, and that should replenish his fluids."

Don visibly sagged in his chair, and turned to smile at his father.

The doctor gave them a moment of relief before she let the other shoe drop. "Charlie will be with us a few days," she warned. "Because the bullet did go through the dog's body first, we're more concerned than usual about infection. We have an antibiotic solution piggybacked to his saline IV; we've started with Vancomycin, one of our strongest antibiotics. We usually like to save that one, in case earlier medicines don't control an infection, but felt it was the right choice in this case. The wound was flushed with copious amounts of saline and antibiotic solution; if an infection develops in spite of these measures, Charlie may still require laproscopy, or even open surgery."

"Did he ever lose consciousness?" Alan asked. "Is he awake now? Can we see him?"

Dr. Trenton addressed his questions in reverse order. "We're waiting for a room to open up in general population; you can certainly sit with him in the exam bay until then, and accompany him upstairs." She leaned forward in her chair, checking the chart again as she did. "I'd actually like to ask _you_ about his state of consciousness. He's very subdued, and has been almost stoic throughout his examination and treatment. There are no other signs of shock present -- is this his usual personality?"

Alan glanced at Don and then looked sadly at the trauma attending. "You know that luck you asked about? It most definitely does _not_ run in the family; we could all use a dose right now. It's been a very difficult few weeks. Charlie's girlfriend was murdered recently -- by the same man who shot him today."

"How awful," the doctor frowned. "Should I arrange for extra security?"

Alan shook his head. "No, that's all right, dear. I took care of it."

**..............................................................................................................................**

Once again, the Craftsman was a crime scene; once again, Alan was staying with Don. They were spending a great deal of time at the hospital; especially Alan. Charlie had developed a low-grade fever, but so far, the Vancomycin was keeping any infection under control, and his wound was healing well. Another MRI, this one by an orthopedist, had determined that Charlie's knee was only bruised from Bloomfield's kick, and would not require surgery.

The second afternoon Charlie was in the hospital, Don arrived at about 1 o'clock, after spending the morning at the office, helping Rumson tie up all the loose ends. Alan was sitting in a chair near the bed, working on a crossword puzzle while Charlie slept. Don slipped quietly in the room and settled in the only other chair in the room.

"Hey, Dad," he greeted quietly.

Alan looked up and smiled, sticking his pen in the puzzle book to save his place. "Donny…I thought you said you wouldn't be here until after noon!"

Don shook his head. "Losing time again, old man? It's 1 o'clock!"

Alan sputtered and looked at his watch. "Well, I'll be damned."

Don glanced at his sleeping brother. "Has he been out all day?"

Alan looked up again, and followed Don's gaze with his own. "No, no. He was up for a few hours this morning. His temperature started to rise, so they made him get back in bed."

Don frowned. "You should have called me."

Alan looked back at him and smiled fondly. "It was only 101 degrees, Don – and it's already gone down a degree. He's fine." Don sounded an unhappy grunt and Alan looked back at Charlie. "He asked me this morning if he could move into your old room."

Don was surprised, although he wasn't sure why. "Is that…a good idea?" he asked. "I mean, is it…healthy, or is it some kind of denial?"

Alan picked up his pen again and redirected his eyes to the crossword puzzle. "I think it's a step," he answered. "At least it'll get him out of the solarium."

"He's still sleeping there?" asked Don.

Alan nodded without looking at him. "Can't say that I don't understand why. Your mother was gone for three months before I tried to sleep in our bed without her. It was another three months before I slept through the night."

Don stared at his father, astonished. "I didn't know that." It occurred to him that in the last couple of days, he'd found out that Alan had more secrets than he did.

Alan shrugged. "I think Charlie knew. About the solarium, certainly…but even after I moved back to the bedroom…" He looked at Don again, his eyes hazy with memory. "I would get up in the middle of the night and go downstairs to make myself some warm milk. Pretty soon I just started making enough for two cups of hot chocolate; your brother always showed up in the kitchen just a few minutes later."

Don was a little flabbergasted. He had thought they were a fairly close family, but now he was starting to wonder. "He didn't mention it to me," he said lamely.

Alan's eyes focused on his again. "You two weren't exactly close, then," he reminded Don gently. "You were still so angry about the whole 'P vs NP' thing." Don couldn't argue with that. He sighed, and Alan kept talking. "The good news is, that distance seems completely foreign to you both, now. The two of you have come a long way in your relationship since then – and it makes me very happy."

Don had withstood all the revelations he could for a few minutes, and he changed the subject. "I'll bet you forgot lunch," he guessed, standing. "I'll go down to the cafeteria and get us a couple of sandwiches. Turkey?"

"I feel more like a Reuben," his father answered.

Don smiled, and lifted an eyebrow. "Really? You don't look like one at all."

**……………………………………………………………………....................**

Alan worked on his puzzle for a few minutes after Don left, but he couldn't concentrate. Telling Don about sleeping in the solarium after Margaret died had stirred his memories of her. Finally, he laid the book aside, on the end of Charlie's bed, and pushed himself with a subdued groan from the chair. The twinge of his knees told him that he had been sitting too long.

He wandered to the room's sole window, where he stood and looked out on the visitors' parking lot. Hundreds of vehicles, each one representing the family member or friend of someone in the hospital. It was an overwhelming thought, that one building contained so much pain, panic, worry – and that wasn't even counting the patients themselves.

Alan thought about a woman he had worked with when he was a city engineer. She had called herself a 'pain receptor'. She avoided places of concentrated emotion – hospitals, funerals. Whether she knew anyone there or not, she claimed, she absorbed the negative energy like a sponge, soon becoming completely shattered herself. At the time, Alan had privately thought she was just another selfish child of the 60s, looking for a reason not to care about anyone other than herself; but on days like this – days that been much too plentiful, especially during Margaret's illness – he wondered if she had been telling the truth.

He was startled from his dark thoughts by Charlie's soft voice. "I'm sorry, Dad."

Alan turned to face the bed, letting the surprise show on his face. "Whatever for, my child?"

Charlie was regarding him with eyes that held a new, sad, wisdom; eyes that reflected the suffering of the last days. Alan was so struck by the expression within them that he almost didn't register what Charlie said. "You shouldn't have had to go through all that alone."

For a moment, even after Alan's brain filtered the words, he wasn't sure what Charlie meant. Then he realized his son was talking about the bridge. Alan smiled at Charlie tenderly. "I wasn't alone, son. I had your mother -- and I had you boys, even though you didn't know what was going on. Especially because of that, in fact."

Charlie slowly blinked. "What?"

Alan walked to the edge of Charlie's bed. "You were both little boys, full of energy and wonder and enthusiasm. It was a marvelous distraction to me, to focus on the normalcy of your lives." He tilted his head, and considered a moment. "In fact, _I_ should apologize to _you_, Charlie." Alan hadn't thought his son could look more confused, but somehow he managed -- without saying a word. "During that time," Alan went on, "that's when I became so involved with Donny's love of baseball. You remember, I helped coach that first year he played in an organized league. Even after that, I hardly ever missed a game." He smiled at Charlie sadly. "I'm afraid I left a lot of the hands-on parenting of you to your mother."

Charlie started to shake his head on the pillow, grimaced slightly, and stopped. "That's not true," he insisted. "Sure, when we were kids, I was with Mom more, while Don was with you...but neither of us felt ignored by the other parent." He grinned. "At least, I didn't. I guess I probably shouldn't speak for Don."

Alan reached out and laid a hand under the curls on Charlie's forehead. "You seem a little flush."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "I'm okay, Dad. You're not changing the subject so easily."

Alan pulled his hand back and grinned wryly. "_Moi_?"

Charlie smiled. "_Tu_," he answered.

"Nice to know you retained something from your language requirement," teased Alan.

Charlie huffed a quiet laugh, trying not to move a muscle when he did so. "I thought you were so cool," he said, bringing the conversation back on track. "I loved watching Donny play ball, too; and it was so cool that my Old Man was one of the coaches. And I loved Wednesdays most of all."

Now Alan was the one confused. "Wednesdays?"

Charlie nodded his head once. "That was Mom's late day at the office. Don had to walk me to my math tutor's house after school -- and you would pick me up. We'd go to the practice field and pick up Don, and then the three of us would go out to dinner -- 'Men's Night', you called it. In-N-Out Burger. Every week, you let me order a chocolate milkshake."

Alan laughed heartily, delighted at the unexpected memory. "Which you could never finish," he supplied. "Don never ordered one, because he knew he'd end up with at least half of yours."

Charlie cautiously moved a tiny bit in the bed. "So that's my point," he said tiredly.

Alan placed his hand lightly on Charlie's forearm, careful to avoid the IV port. "And mine," he said. " 'Men's Night' -- and you boys -- kept me sane, during that investigation. I wasn't alone, son." He paused. "And neither are you," he added gently. "Charlie, I'm so sorry this happened. Can you ever forgive me?"

Charlie's eyes filled with tears; one escaped and rolled down his stubbled cheek. He ignored it, lifting his arm and letting his father's hand slip into his own. "Sshh, Dad," he said softly. "There's nothing to forgive."

**...................................................................................................................**

End, Chapter 14

**.................................................................................................**

_**A/N: For the first time in my career, Charlie will suffer no complications. Only one more chapter...**_


	15. Some Glad Morning

**Smoke Gets In Your Eyes**

**FraidyCat**

_**Disclaimer: All Numb3rs characters and characterizations respectfully borrowed from CBS, Cheryl Heuton, Nick Falacci et al. No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic.**_

**……………………………………………………………………………………………………**

**Chapter 15: Some Glad Morning**

Millie sighed in pleasure and lowered the microwaveable container to her lap. She smirked at Alan. "I _had_ rather envisioned collecting my beef stroganoff at an actual table, from an actual plate...but this is delicious."

Alan grinned. "When you told me you were coming by to see Charlie during your lunch hour, I figured I should at least feed you. It's nice that they have a microwave in the visitors' lounge." He glanced at Charlie, whose own container of stroganoff sat virtually untouched on his bedside table. At least the boy was nibbling on one of the dinner rolls Alan had also brought; Alan decided to leave him alone for the time-being.

Millie saw Alan's subdued concern and tried to distract him. "Larry sends his greetings, Charlie. He's hoping to get by to visit this evening. I've been keeping him pretty busy."

Charlie placed the remainder of the dinner roll on top of his stroganoff. "Umm," he murmured. "With my classes in addition to...Amita's..." His voice trailed off, and he shifted in the bed. For the second day in a row, he had been ordered back to bed when his temperature began to rise. "The doctor said I should be able to go back to work a week after I'm released from the hospital."

Alan looked at him, surprised; he hadn't even known Charlie was thinking about returning to CalSci. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"There's no rush," interjected Millie. "I'm rather enjoying being back in a classroom on a regular basis. Take as long as you need."

Charlie's lips curled in a wry smile. "Forever wouldn't be long enough to 'get over' Amita, if that's what you're implying," he retorted. Neither of his visitors seemed to have a comeback for that one, and the room was silent for a few moments before Charlie sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. "That was unnecessary. I do appreciate everything everyone's been doing...I just can't sit around the house and think all the time."

"Work can be a distraction," agreed Alan slowly. "It can also be an excuse, son."

Charlie's lips formed a grim line. "I'm not going to flip out again," he protested. "Not like.... I don't even want to work full-time, at first. Just a few classes a week, while I get used to being back on campus." _And to Amita not being there_, he added silently.

"I think that's an excellent idea," declared Millie. "Moderation, in all things."

Charlie turned to look at the empty container in her lap. "Except stroganoff," he observed drily.

**.....................................................................................................................................................**

Charlie's temp went back down, and he was allowed to take a walk through the hospital corridors with Don that evening, after Alan had gone home.

"So. When are they busting you outta here?" asked Don.

Charlie shrugged. "Doc says I need to maintain a normal temperature for 24 hours."

"How long has the clock been ticking?"

"It's not, yet," Charlie answered. "When they took my temperature right before you got here, it was still 99. Technically, that's not normal."

Don bumped his shoulder lightly with his own. "Technically," he said, "neither are you."

Charlie smiled and bumped back -- hard. "You _will_ pay for that, you know."

"I know," Don said. "Some things are just worth the price."

Charlie suddenly stopped walking; Don was two steps in front of him before he noticed, and executed a perfect about-face. "Charlie?" he asked, concerned.

Charlie's face was full of wonder as he looked back at Don. "You're absolutely right."

Don took a step closer to Charlie. "Well, I usually am," he agreed. "But what the hell are you talking about?"

Charlie's smile was more genuine and brighter than Don had seen in days. "She was worth it," his little brother said in an awe-struck voice. "Knowing Amita, loving Amita...even if I had known what the price would be, I still would have done it."

Don felt his own smile, so wide that his cheeks were strained. "Of course you would," he remarked simply. "That's why they call you a genius."

**............................................................................................................**

_**EPILOGUE**_

The year before, there had been a late spring – which accounted for the dogwood blossoms in the meadow. On June 10th of this year, they were long gone. Even without them, the high mountain meadows were beautiful. A light breeze stirred the verdant grasses. Stunning, far-reaching views awaited the group at every bluff. When the trail wound through forested land, as it often did, cedar, silver fir, spruce and black oak mixed together to offer hikers shade, and a cool, green retreat from the city.

Charlie led the expedition, pack on his back; Don was just a few feet behind him. Charlie had taken to riding his bike to school again, obstensibly to rehab his knee, and by now was in fine hiking condition. Nevertheless, Don thought he could probably keep up with him – but it was important for Charlie to set the pace, so Don hung back a little.

Several feet behind him, Robin walked with Alan, the diamond on the third finger of her left hand glinting in the patches of sunlight that filtered through the forest canopy. With the aide of a walking stick, Alan had been holding up to the journey pretty well so far, but he was comforted by her proximity, nonetheless. Larry completed the entourage, bringing up the rear. He had often been Charlie's hiking partner, and would ordinarily be near the front, but today he kept stopping to record things with the video camera he carried.

Charlie slowed as the thick forest thinned into another meadow. He stood at the edge of the trees, his head tilted as if he was listening for something. Don stopped moving as well, and as each member of the group caught up to him, they formed a respectful semi-circle and waited. Almost a full minute passed before Charlie turned around to face them. "This is it," he announced before he turned back to the meadow. "This is the one."

Larry moved up to the edge of the woods with his camera, several feet to Charlie's left. He raised the camera and slowly panned the entire meadow, pivoting as he filmed. Rather than emptying into the forest again, this meadow tapered off into a bluff; it was the end of the trail. Larry let the camera linger on Charlie for a few moments before he went on to film the group standing behind him. He lowered the camera, and walked quietly over to his friend, saying nothing when he arrived. Don was soon standing on Charlie's other side. They stood that way, silently, for another few minutes.

Charlie lowered his head to his chest and inhaled deeply. When he lifted his head again, he began to speak. "Every year, we always came all the way to this meadow. It was her favorite. She liked to stand right on the edge of the bluff." He smiled, lost in the memory. "It made me nervous, but she just laughed at me; told me to get used to it -- I was walking on the wild side, now."

Don and Larry both smiled, but didn't comment. Alan was now directly behind Charlie. "Take your time, son. Whenever you're ready."

Charlie nodded, then squared his shoulders and readjusted the pack on his back. He looked briefly at Don before he left for the bluff on the other side of the meadow. "I need to do this alone," he reminded his brother.

Don nodded his understanding. "We'll be right here."

Charlie nodded again before he left for the bluff. When he was about halfway to his destination, Larry advanced several feet into the meadow, adjusted the camera to zoom mode, and raised it to his eye. He started filming, again; he watched through the lens as Charlie's feet took him to the very edge of the bluff. Charlie stood there a while, then shrugged the pack from his back and lowered it to the ground. He knelt next to the pack, fumbled with the zipper, and eventually withdrew the black, porcelain urn.

He stood, lifting the container with him. He hugged Amita to his chest and tilted his face to the sun. He stood that way for a moment, and then looked down at the urn, again. He moved one hand so that it rested on the snug lid. "I will always love you," he whispered. Then Charlie removed the lid, which he dropped onto the backpack. He gripped the urn tightly with both hands, and leaned perilously over the edge of the bluff -- Alan would have been terrified, if he'd had a better view.

Slowly, Charlie turned the urn upside down, and let the gentle breeze take her.

**........................................................................................................................**

They let Charlie sit alone near the bluff for almost an hour. Then Don crossed the meadow and lowered himself to the grass. "Charlie...it's almost 4 o'clock. We need to allow plenty of time to get back. I'm sorry..."

Charlie rotated his head so that he was facing Don. There was pain in his expression, yes; but Don was struck with the peace he saw on that face, as well. "It's all right," Charlie answered. "The trip back always takes less time." He had returned the now-empty urn to the pack, and he hefted it will him as he scrambled to his feet. "I think I can go a little faster, now; I don't feel so much....weight."

Don, also climbing to his feet, knew that Charlie wasn't referring to the weight of the ashes. The ritual of letting Amita go had been an important step towards Charlie's reconciling himself to life without her. "Good," he said, smiling as he draped an arm over Charlie's shoulders and turned him toward the group waiting on the other side of the meadow. "I'm glad."

Charlie dangled the pack from one hand rather than placing it on his back, again. "Thanks for helping me through this, Don," he said sincerely as they started walking. "I appreciate that you all came with me."

"We wouldn't be anywhere else," Don assured him. "Everybody here loves you -- and you know I've always got your back, right?"

Charlie smiled, lowering his head. "Absolutely," he said, watching his own feet tread through the meadow. "You know, Amita always said she never missed not having a sibling, until she saw the two of us together."

Don chuckled. "Didn't she ever see us disagree?"

"All the time," Charlie responded. "It's pretty much a daily occurence."

Don laughed again, then was silent while he remembered the conversation he had had with his father almost 8 months before. "Dad says there was a time when you and I weren't close," he finally said. "I don't remember that, do you?"

Charlie glanced up at him. His eyes were wide at first, but narrowed as a slow smile spread over his face. "He's an old man," he responded. "I think his memory's going."

.**..............................................................................................................................**

**~ End ~**

**………………………………………………………………………………****..**

_**A/N: And there you have it; a brief interlude in the lives of our heroes. (Now, admit it; I managed to kill Amita without dissing her at any junction along the way, didn't I?) **_

_**For the record, before anyone wastes a review: "**__**According to the California Department of Consumer Affairs funeral guide, state law allows the scattering of ashes if there are no local prohibitions. Written permission, according to the agency, must be obtained from private property owners or agencies managing public land. The disposition of ashes is indicated on a county health department burial permit usually obtained by a mortuary."**_


End file.
